Reaper
by mini bagel
Summary: Timothy McGee is incidentally the Grim Reaper, and his job is about to be outsourced. However, no one else can possibly take it. Doomsday anyone? Story is finished, will (hopefully) post a chapter a day.
1. Chapter 1

This is the last fanfic I wrote and has been sitting around on my hard drive for about half a year. About the time I started watching Supernatural... Why not let it loose? It's already done, with fifteen chapters total. I'll try and post one a day.

Reviews are loved but not required.

* * *

Reaper

* * *

Chapter One

Arthur Rosenthal scrabbled weakly against the other man's clothing, shock slowing his thoughts to a bare drip.

The knife was slipped smoothly out the way it came, and was dropped effortlessly back into a trench coat pocket. He clung to the man's lapels until his hands were gently shrugged away. Footsteps echoed calmly in the opposite direction growing fainter, fainter, gone. He stood there, blood hidden by his coat, trembling ever so slightly, limbs refusing to respond to his brain's panicked demands.

Colors exploded like planetary nebulas before his eyes, and the ground tilted under his feet.

The world tipped down before his eyes. The street. Someone vanishing into the bustle. Crowd. Building roofs. And then, sky.

It looked like rain.

Someone gasped.

Him? No.

"Are you alright?"

Do I look alright? The colors that were so vivid before seemed washed out now.

People stared at him. A small crowd started forming. Nameless faces, frozen. Why don't they help him? Can't they see he's hurt?

A pair of eyes watched him. _Eyes_. In italics. _Eyes_ that cut through time and space, fazed through them. Existed outside of such silly little boundaries. Eyes with the brightest, flickering green light deep in them.

The owner of these eyes passed effortlessly through the crowd, movements smoother than any earthly, or heavenly, substance. It was as if it was made of absolutely nothing. A dead space. A gaping hole in the world that nothing could ever fill, but unnoticeable to the average eye. The being approached and stood above him, emotionless, regal, formal. Time slowed to a crawl, the colors fading, the light gaining a gray tint, sounds muffled. The crowd swayed like seaweed deep at the bottom of the ocean, a gentle current caressing them.

The world seemed to bend toward the figure, distorting ever so slightly at the edges, as if wanting to embrace it. Touch it to assure that it was real.

**Stand**.

The command came from nowhere and everywhere. It permeated every atom, every soul. One by one, each person in the crowd uncomfortably fidgeted on the spot, as if someone had just run a cold finger down the length of their spine. They just kept staring, as if stuck in slow motion. There were the muted sounds of sirens in the distance.

**Stand**.

There it was again. Arthur rose without effort, glanced back at himself upon the ground, and then looked at the figure.

"What now?" He asked in a detached manner, the gravity of his situation lagging far behind him.

The figure gave him a long look, as if expecting something different, but then a response was born into the space between realities.

**Come with me. Your time is over**.

"Is it?"

**Yes**.

"Can I-" Arthur's words halted, his face twisted for a moment in overwhelming pain. The metaphorical bus hit him head on, going ten miles per hour over the speed limit, the metaphorical bus driver grinning gleefully, hanging half out the window. "Can I say goodbye to anyone? Can I change anything?" He swallowed hard.

The figure paused. There was a sound akin to a breath being drawn in, but magnified in volume and depth, both horrible and fascinating at the same time. (One would have felt the urge to throw oneself off a bridge at hearing this noise. Fortunately, practically all who hear it are already dead, so no harm no foul.) Arthur felt the breath seep into him, through him, beyond him, and then drawn back to the figure. He was being inspected, his date of expiration evaluated by the keenest of eyes.

**No. There isn't anything you can change. You're done**.

The eyes, sad, stony and green, deep in impenetrable darkness, pierced through his being. The figure turned from him and began to flow away.

"We just had a baby. A little girl." Arthur said listlessly to no one in particular.

The figure halted, and everything flickered. The light brightened, the world focused, sound flared up. And for a tenth of a second, a man stood in the place of the figure, just a man, tall and lean, shoulders slumped, tension in every line.

It was over before Arthur could register it.

**Come with me. I have a schedule. I need to keep it**.

A pause.

**I…I apologize about your daughter**.

"It's fine. I just wish…" He didn't bother finishing this sentence. Arthur Rosenthal gathered himself and straightened his posture into something more formal. More controlled. He pinned his arms tightly against his sides. "Okay." He held his head high. "Where to next, Sir?"

**You come with me, and I guide you to what's next**.

The two beings walked side by side and vanished.

The world snapped back with a soft hiss that wasn't meant for the ears of the living, and the ambulance arrived.

o-o

"You're slipping." The voice confronted the figure just as the door to the apartment was opened. The figure entered and shut the door. The actions were truly unnecessary, the being didn't need to ever open any barricade to enter, but it was a routine. He liked routine.

Oh no.

**No, I'm not**.

The figure contracted in on itself for a moment, arms squeezing towards its sides, and then there was a man suddenly filling the spot that the being always left gaping. Robes of excess time melted off the man in, unseen to normal eyes, almost translucent waves tinted a glowing silver, and dissipated upon touching the floor.

I'm fine. I'm- "-just tired." The words that just existed before were transmuted into sound waves, into a weary voice. The man known as Timothy McGee turned to face his guest with knowing eyes.

"And that's it right there." The guest leaned against the counter in the kitchen, arms folded casually. He clearly belonged there. But he was the kind of man who looked like he belonged wherever you could possibly put him.

He was…average, in every sense of the word. Once you lost sight of him, you'd forget he was ever there at all, though you felt filled with an odd brotherly feeling about your fellow man. The only thing that stepped away from the ordinary about his appearance was a necklace dangling from around his neck; in the low light two pendants, a detailed scale and a wicked-looking sword, twinkled unnaturally on the gold chain. A sort of pureness inked out of him, like golden light under a locked door.

"You don't get tired. You can't. Or at least-" The man gave a small half smile, understanding in the worst way, on the verge of being condescending. Tim crushed the urge to punch the smile off his face at its inception. "-you shouldn't."

"That's why I'm doing this experiment. To learn about them. They fatigue, they get tired." Tim said without a fluctuation in tone, swallowing the sarcasm he oh so dearly wanted to coat his words with. Tim then smiled. "Doesn't anyone, below or above, read my reports?"

"You always were a bit too curious for your own good, eh? A bit too fascinated with your work." The man came closer, giving him a penetrating look. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" The man looked mildly concerned. Tim shut his eyes, then _opened_ them, drawing himself up. Though they were about the same height, Tim suddenly seemed to tower over him.

**Careful**.

The one word filled the small space between the two, existing in a way that could only be called impossible, firmer than tempered steel, more real than any piece of furniture in the next room. Tim's eyes were the eyes of an ancient immortal being, like two black holes.

The man stopped in his tracks, a line appeared between his eyebrows as they contracted. He took a breath and stared Tim down, auras clashed mutely.

"I'm worried. If you lose yourself…" He trailed off and turned his head to look further into the apartment. In the faint light, one could almost be tricked into seeing a flash of a golden haze, encircling his head, just for the briefest of seconds. "Even He will not be able to help us." He turned back and stared at Tim, immortal eyes matching immortal eyes.

**I won't lose myself**.

"Be sure that you don't."  
**  
****You are not my caretaker, Michael**.

"No, I'm not. You shouldn't need one. But I think you do."

**No, I do not. Leave Michael**.

Michael's calm exterior warped for a moment, a slice of shock and unquiet showing through. "Azrael-"

**This is not of your concern, Michael.**

"It's of all our concern, Azrael!" Michael said, pure, pale cheeks gaining a slight stain of red. Tim got the distinct feeling that whatever manipulation tactics that usually worked for Michael had failed, as well as any attempt to remain cool and detached.

**Leave**.

He maneuvered around Tim and opened the door. Michael then turned, and looked back at Tim, frustration and uncertainty on his face and his cheeks stained pink; it would have made any normal person weep without hesitation. "You walk a fine line. Please, don't slip." A pause that waited to be filled. "Goodbye, Azrael." The door shut with a dull thunk behind him.

The ancient, immortal haze that had embedded itself in Tim, faded away, leaving behind a very tired man. Or something as close to a man as it could get.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"You look tired, McGee. La-"

"Yes, Tony, I did have a late night."

"With a speci-"

"No, not with anyone else." Tim eyed Tony. Tony opened his mouth again. "Female of otherwise." He interjected curtly.

Tony held both hands up, palms toward Tim, and slumped into a more comfortable but less orthopedicly friendly position on the bench by their usual coffee stand. "Pardon me, McSnappish, for taking an interest in my favorite Probie. No offense, Ziva."

"None taken." Ziva placed the coffees gently upon the bench and took a seat between the two. She gave Tim a sunny smile. He gave an irritated smile back.

"You're almost grown up too, McGee. I'm so proud." Tony wiped away a fictitious tear with a conviction that almost earned him a Golden Globe on the spot. (He'd have to try harder for an Oscar.)

"And it only took, what, Nine years, for this to happen?" Tim nodded to Ziva as she handed him his coffee, and took a long sip.

"Don't worry, McGee, it just takes time for some kids." Tony reached across Ziva and patted Tim's arm comfortingly, he smiled widely, all teeth. "You're like-"

"Fine wine?" Ziva interrupted with a small smile and sipped her coffee, absentmindedly brushing a few fallen autumn leaves from her lap with her other hand.

"Sure, we'll say that."

Ziva gave him a look over the rim of her cup. "What were you going to say?"

"What you said. The wine thing." Tony took a long draught of his coffee, eyes innocently wide.

"Liar." Ziva countered quickly, almost neatly clipping off the punctuation on the end of his statement.

"Takes one to know one. Zi-va."

"Quite mature, Tony."

"Where did you get the feeling that I was mature? I feel like I don't know you anymore, Ziva."

Their conversation fell to a vague buzz, muffled. Everything became background noise, vague and undeciphearble. The world blurred and slowed. Tim closed his eyes and pressed them tightly together. The universe blossomed underneath the closed lids.

Petty Officer Anthony Fell opened his eyes. He hadn't even realized that he had closed them. The kid was still standing there, blood spattered all over the front of his clothing, gun held limply in one hand, face frozen. Anthony's wallet had fallen from the kid's other hand, to the ground and laid there like a piece of litter in the entranceway to the alley.

The kid ran shakily off. Anthony watched him vanish around the corner. Why don't I feel anything? He glanced down at the two small holes in his chest, and realized that…he hadn't moved at all. He tried to wiggled his fingers. Nothing.

"Oh."

**Yes**.

Anthony started backward, scrambling out of his own body. A figure stood in the entranceway of the alley like it had always been there, before any other creation.

**Don't be afraid. I'm here to guide you**.

"Who the hell are you?"

**I am Death. Pleased to be of…service, I suppose**.

One got the impression that the figure would be smiling hopefully, if he had a traditional face, waiting for any sort of amusement from its charge. Anthony stared without emotion, entirely overwhelmed. There was then something almost akin to a sigh. It sounded like all the winds on Earth (As well as the surrounding galaxies.) combined, then tainted and twisted by endless expanses of time.

**Stand, Anthony**.

Anthony stood at the command, back straightening, chin lifting, training once again inking into his bloodstream.

"Sir,"

**Come**.

There was an echo of a sharp yelp, deadened, but close by. A woman phased silently through the figure and crouched by the body, phone out.

**Come**.

"I'm only twenty-two, Sir."

The figure stared without acknowledgment for a second.

**Pardon**?

"I'm twenty-two years old, Sir." Anthony's voice quivered. "I was going to do so much." The figure shifted, almost uncomfortably, one might say before realizing who they were speaking of.

**You were. But now, you cannot**.

The figure glided closer to Anthony.

"Please." The word was barely heard, even in the relative silence, all other noises masked. It dripped in fear, sadness, and desperation. There were sirens in the distance, drawing closer and closer.

**Don't**.

The word was harsh, a thousand knife tips, sharpened by the eons. Anthony flinched. The figure mirrored him, flickering between man and…something beyond that.

Tim screwed his eyes even more tightly shut, and stopped breathing.

The figure seemed to gain control of itself.

**There is nothing I can do. Your clock has struck twelve. Come with me**.

"Yes, Sir." Petty Officer Anthony Fell seemed to gather himself again, and the two figures walked away, and vanished.

Police cars arrived.

The scene was assessed.

A number was called.

Tim began to breathe again. Oh no. What the hell was happening to him?

A phone rang in the distance.

"Hello?" Tony's voice echoed as it entered infinity. "Hey, Boss. We got a case? No, it's okay, they're right here. We'll be there in…five minutes? Yep. Bye." The sound of a phone snapping shut. "Got a case." The rustling of fabric against wood, scrape of rubber soles against concrete.

"McGee?"

"You okay?

Tim's eyes opened, sound sharpened and the world righted itself.

"Fine."

Tony and Ziva exchanged a look that contained a conversation far longer and in-depth than he was comfortable with, and then glanced back at him.

"You do not seem, 'fine', McGee." Ziva said carefully, as if examining each word individually for the most effect intended.

"Yeah, I mean you're usually a bit spaced out," Tony twirled a finger in a circle next to his head, loopy expression plastered onto his face, to accompany his words. Ziva subtly planted the heel of her shoe onto his toes. He winced. "But, McGee, something doesn't feel right here."

"Is this…some kind of intervention?"

Another exchange of looks. "Yes." "No." The two answers tangled together. A pause. "No." "Yes."

"Right." Tim said finally, glancing between Tony and Ziva, who looked like they were on the edge of an argument about their horrible planning. I'm fine." He stood, an edge wobbly, and straightened. "C'mon, we have a case." Tim then took off down the sidewalk, determination to avoid whatever Tony and Ziva had been trying to do, ingrained in every single step.

For a second, he allowed the utter confusion and fear to swamp his features, to squeeze his heart. _His_ heart. Interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm glad you guys are enjoying the story!

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

"McGee, go interview the witness."

"Yes, Boss." Tim answered, stepping around the pool of drying blood, avoiding looking directly at the body of Anthony Fell, dodging both Tony and Ziva's watching eyes, and quelling the unnatural feelings of panic and uncertainty threatening to overwhelm him, all at the same time. Tim juggled them expertly. Throughout his…career, he had had a lot of time to practice multitasking.

His conversation with the witness, the woman who had discovered the body in the first place, was very short, and in the end, fruitless. She hadn't seen anything of importance. Tim sighed, and tucked his notebook safely away in his jacket pocket.

"Why don't you just tell them?"

Tim looked sharply up at the question that sounded way too ominous for a statement that simple.

"I'm sorry?" Tim's gaze fell upon a man casually watching the preceedings close by on Tim's right. He was lithe and well-dressed, very well-dressed, wearing a three piece suit seemingly made out liquid night, dark hair in the cut of a wealthy, corrupt businessman. "Sir, you shouldn't be here, this is a crime scene," He stopped as he spotted a police officer manning the small crowd that had gathered. "Hey! Hey, come here." The officer walked over. Tim placed a firm hand on the dark man's shoulder and then eyed the officer. "How did this man get in? You know the rules, no unrelated civilians under the tape. He could have tainted evidence!" The dark man gave the officer a coquettish wave.

The officer stared at the man. "I, Sir, I…don't…I, what man?" He sputtered, shutting his eyes tightly and then reopening them in complete incomprehension. "I don't know…I can't…I-" Color began to drain from the officer's features. His lips continued to move, though no more sound escaped. Tim leaned in closer to the officer, and realized.

"Let him go." Tim said slowly, as calmly as he could manage. The officer swayed and choked on his feet, lips gaining a blue tinge. No one seemed to notice, all heads turned just slightly away from them. Chatter had quieted to a murmur. The man watched all this with interest. Tim squeezed the man's shoulder with an inhuman force.

Release him.

The officer gave a tiny gasp, and began to breathe normally again, blue tinge fleeing from his lips. The dark man performed a fleeting, quite complicated, movement with his hand, a dismissal, and the officer, face oddly blank, tottered back to the edge of the tape. Conversations were allowed to grow organically again.

"I wasn't going to kill him you know."

"Really?"

The dark man winked at Tim. "Nah, man, I'm on sabattical. It's been a while since I visited. I'm on my vacation, enjoying the darkness of humanity." The man's eyes glinted in a way that caused Tim to take an even firmer hold on the man's shoulder. "They haven't needed our help in that aspect for a very long time. I'm just…enjoying the view." He said, looking both disgusted and delighted as he said this. It was a feat that this man pulled off effortlessly. Tim guided the dark man underneath the yellow tape, glanced back at Gibbs, and then ducked under it himself. He led the man out earshot and then released his shoulder, pushing him away. The man faced Tim, looking thoroughly unruffled despite the hostility in Tim's actions.

"What do you want?" Tim demanded.

The man tapped an expensive shoe on the sidewalk. "Same question as before, why don't you tell them? You, Az," The man prodded Tim in the chest. "Know who the killer is, what happened, and his exact location. Why don't you tell your little pets. Help 'em out." The man smiled razor blades.

Tim forced himself not to bristle at the word, 'pets'. "You know I can't."

"You can. You just choose not to. And here I was thinking you were fond of these meat sacks."

Tim felt anger crawl up his veins, and breathed out in a way that was entirely inhuman. Time went into gridlock, slowing to a crawl, and he allowed his mask of humanity to melt away. He loomed over the man, sucking all the air from the world. The temperature of the surrounding area dropped by several degrees.

Do not try to tempt me, Beelzebub. I am not some mortal to be drawn into one of your games.

The words blasted into being at a temperature close to absolute zero, and so firm they were solid. Every living thing within a two-hundred mile radius shivered without knowing why. The man, shockingly, smiled, a bit nervously, but still rather pleased. Though there was an undertone of unease in his posture.

He raised his hands up appealingly. "Whoa, calm down, Azrael. Old habits are hard to break, I guess." Beelzebub shrugged, the movement rippled unnaturally throughout his body.

The being slowly withdrew into itself, and Tim slipped over its skin again. He clenched his shaking hands and tried to still his heartbeat. That kind of thing did a number on his mortal form, but he filed that moment into the 'very worth it' drawer, Beelzebub had backed a step or two away from him, and seemed a bit more wary.

"Why are you here, Beelzebub? What's so important that a Duke of Hell is sent as a messenger boy to me?" Tim knew he was beginning to cross lines, but couldn't stop the words from slipping out. Too much time around Tony would help anyone develop a smart mouth though. _Oh no. Was what Michael said true?_

Beelzebub smiled coldly at the comment, there was a flash of raging fire and endless war in his eyes. "Word says you've gone native."

Tim stiffened.

"Says you're in danger of forgetting who you really are, and what your job description is." Beelzebub leered, enjoying Tim's reaction after the messenger boy comment. "Any fact in that, Az?"

There was a telling pause. Tim kept the uncertainty off his features the best he could (Which was pretty damn good) and stared right back at Beelzebub. The smile on Beelzebub's face had faded a little after the delay in an answer. There was a strain of worry there now.

"I think it's time for you to go, Beelzebub."

"Azrael-"

**Go**.

Beelzebub eyed Tim closely, the strain of worry spreading and mixing with disbelief, as well as uncertainty. It was a horrible combination on the demon's features. Without another word, Beelzebub melted through the pavement.

Tim watched the spot he had vanished, and then let go of time, which snapped back into place.

"McGee!" Tim turned sharply back toward the crime scene. Gibbs was staring at him from behind the tape. "The hell are you doing?"

Tim returned as quickly as he could, ducking under the tape and then facing Gibbs.

"I thought I…saw something, but it didn't turn out to be anything. Sorry." He gave Gibbs a sharp nod to accompany his words, as if to add more weight to them. It didn't seem to help, but Gibbs allowed it to pass without comment. For now. Tim crushed the slight relief under his toe, things were becoming too complicated.

"What do ya got?"

Tim swallowed, and then gave a weak smile that died as quickly as it had come. "Nothing, Boss. Absolutely nothing."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

* * *

"What exactly are you asking, Azrael?"

**Must I repeat myself**?

"Yes, I think that would be beneficial to us both."

**Fine. I would like to request a mortal form, or at least, something close**.

"And, what exactly, would this be for?"

**I would like to study them**.

"Humans."

**Yes. They're fascinating creatures. Innovative, empathetic, intelligent. Yet vindictive, violent, caustic. Cruel and kind at the same time**.

"You care about them?"

**No**.

"Are you sure?"

**They are merely sources of interest for me, Lord. I just want to get to know them from a different viewpoint than my…usual one.**"…You must understand my hesitation. If you change in any way, or are somehow unable to continue your normal duties-"

**I will be fine. It's your other angels I would be worrying about.**

"Will you be able to continue your duties?"

**I never stop**.

A sigh. "Caring is not a disadvantage normally, Azrael. But considering what your purpose is…"

**I will remain unchanged.**

"…I don't have much of a choice, do I, Azrael?"

**No, you don't.**

"You do know what a mortal casing entails, do you not? They are fragile. You may not be able to die like they do, but you can be hurt, and the shell can be discorporated. You will tire, and you will have needs that you have never had before."

**I understand**.

"You will be able to shift the shell and use your powers, but do so carefully." A pause. "Do not get attached."  
**  
****It is only an experiment, Lord**.

"Yes, but experiments often have surprising outcomes. Outcomes that may be regretted."

**…**

**What are you not telling me**?

"Azrael, Archangel of Death,"

**Lord, what are you not saying**?

"You request a mortal form. A shell to occupy your immortal soul. To walk among those who you reap."

**Lord**!

"I grant your request."

**…**

"Good luck."

o-o

And suddenly, Timothy McGee comes into being. He has always been there. Why would it be sudden then? He has always existed, as the moon and sun have in the eyes of humans.

Timothy McGee takes his first breath, which can't only be his first, and looks out into the mortal world (His apartment) with wide immortal eyes.

He blinks.

No, mortal eyes. Well, now they are.

o-o

"I'm worried."

"You're always worried."

"Azrael has always been too interested in the lives of humans."

"Yeah, I noticed. He toes the line admirably. I'm surprised he never fell and became mine."

"He can't fall. He's beyond falling. Beyond you, beyond me…"

"Yes, I know that. It was merely a statement. Have you ever noticed that you take things too literally?"

"I would worry for his safety if he was ever placed into your jurisdiction. It wouldn't do any good for me to ask you to treat your demons better, would it?"

"What about your angels? Do you actually see some of the things they do? What about Michael? And the humans? If I remember correctly, they were of your creation. I only wish they had been mine. Nasty little things, they are. More creative than my entire court put together."

"And now Azrael walks among them."

"I hope this doesn't come back to blow up in your face. If all this goes wrong…I don't even know. How did he come to be…what he is? How did he become the lynchpin of this world?"

A sigh. "…Where there is life, there must be death. I gave him the position, and he became fitted to it. He rose beyond even my expectations."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"And if he fails? If he loses himself?"

"Then…we'll need another plan." A heavy pause. "If there is no death, there can be no life."

"…"

"…"

"Shit."

"Correct."

"What about the Antichrist? I haven't even planted him yet. There are rules, he's-he's one of the four!"

"It won't matter."

"Are you sure that'll be the end?"

"I…don't know."

"…"

"…"

"Fuck."

"Indeed."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

Tim was grateful for one thing at that moment.

That Tony had at least waited until the rest of the team, even Gibbs, probably eager for that hot date with some wood and some bourbon, had departed for the night to confront him.

Tim waited a few minutes, and then finally glanced up from his case report.

"What do you want, Tony?" He asked in a flat voice. Tony tilted his head to the side and slid a hand casually down his tie.

"What, can't a man visit his partner at work?" Tony's light tone contrasted vividly with his serious demeanor. There was a small smile on his face that seemed more a formality than to convey any sort of happiness.

"When the man's you, no." Tim pressed print on his report and straightened in his chair. "Plus, the Godfather marathon you've been talking about for days started an hour ago, and you're still here."

Tony pressed his lips together and leaned rigidly against Tim's desk. Tim could see he wasn't going to just drop it like the last few times. Shoot. "Something's wrong in the neighborhood, McGee, and it isn't just that I'm missing a cinematic masterpiece right now."

Tim took a breath, keeping his face straight and completely clear. Options, options, options. Mental filing drawers were thrown open. He could always force Tony to forget, defer the thoughts, reach inside and pluck the thoughts away. It'd be so damn easy…no. Tim shoved those thoughts as far away as possible. No. Never. Not on them. The snipping sound of his report printing cut annoyingly into his thoughts.

"McGee. C'mon,"

Tim's eyes flickered back to Tony. Time's up. Tony folded his arms against his chest, and eyed Tim in a stern, oddly mature manner. It'd been a long time since Tim had seen Tony this serious. He swallowed.

"Don't try to lie to me, Tim. I invented the art of lying." Tony tipped his chin up.

"Really, Tony?"

"I perfected the art of lying." Tony amended. "Either way, I'm pretty damn good at it. Don't try and pull the wool over your master's eyes, grasshopper."

Tim paused and stole a breath. Words then. So human. You really have gone native haven't you? Old you would have gently, but forcefully, maneuvered him out of your way. Tim was unsure how this made him feel.

"I wasn't going to. But I can't tell you, Tony." He met Tony's eyes, silently urging him (Purely human. No immortal powers in use there) to listen very carefully and believe him. "Not right now." Maybe not ever, if the cards played out in the way Tim hoped they would. "I have to handle this myself." Tony opened his mouth. "Please." Tony mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth against teeth. Tim sensed a hesitant and rather bittersweet victory on the horizon. Tony stood there, silent for a moment.

"Yeah, alright. But," Tony cut in sharply after a small pause. "If you get in over your head, tell me." Tony stood, headed over to his own desk, swung his bag onto his back and placed a hand on his lamp. He turned to face Tim and smiled widely. "I've spent too long molding you into shape to have to start over with some new green-as-grass Probie." He extinguished the light. Tim closed his eyes and rubbed his face. Footsteps thumped out of the bullpen and a whistled, slightly out of tune, version of the theme from the Godfather grew quieter and quieter until it was cut off completely as elevator doors whispered shut.

o-o

The darkness of the morgue embraced the figure like a beloved, wayward father, returning from a long, unexplained absence, bending inward toward the figure. The darkness seemed to dare not touch the figure's cloak, unless it would be pulled into the nothingness, dragged, clawing, pleading, into a blackness that was beyond anything it could ever be.

The figure stood among the empty shells in their metal boxes, and the worshipping darkness, and was home, in a way. Or as close to home as a creature such as this one could ever get.

A house of Death.

If one ever asked Death if he remembered any of his victims, he would say no. He didn't have victims, and he never would if he could help it. If one ever asked if he remembered any of his charges, he would say yes. Yes, he did, every single last one. There were so many. There still are, at that very moment.

No one ever asked though.

The door to Autopsy swished open.

"-And next time, Mr. Palmer, do what you have been told to do, [i]when[/i] you are told to do it."

"I'm really, really sorry, Doctor. I can stick around and do it right now if-"

"No, go ahead and depart for the evening, Mr. Palmer, I will handle it this time. I understand the lovely Breena is waiting for you?"

"…yes."

"Go."

"Night, Doctor."

"Good night, Mr. Palmer."

The figure didn't move as Ducky entered autopsy, looking mildly irritated but mostly amused. He went to his desk and shifted through a few papers, shaking his head slightly. He stiffened, as if feeling the odd gaze focused on him, turned and saw the figure. He froze for a second and then a wan smile appeared on his face.

"Is it that time already?" Ducky asked softly.

**No. Not yet, Dr. Mallard.**

"Ducky, please."

There was a sudden distinct sense that if one could view the figure's features, there'd be a tired smile there.

**You do realize who I am, don't you Ducky?**

Ducky peered intently over the rims of his glasses. There was a hint of old familiarity in his eyes. The figure felt an odd sliver of fear that he might be recognized not for what stood there.

"Of course I do." Ducky's eyes glinted for a moment. "I converse with you daily, though you've never reciprocated before in this direct a manner. What brings you here?"

A pause.

**How do you see me?**The question came out as a whisper, words creeping, weak and somber, into an uncertain place filled with no answers. They trickled from the figure and slithered into a pile on the ground.  
**  
****Am I a plague? Am I a monstrosity? The horror, the horror?****  
**  
"No, you are a balance. Without death, would life hold any of its value? My dear boy," Ducky sighed. The figure held a phantom smile. _Only Ducky would call an immortal being, 'My dear boy'_. "Without an end, would a beginning be worth it?" Ducky carefully placed his hat back onto his head, a shake visible in his hand. He nodded to the figure and strolled out through the doors which slid open to say farewell. He paused in the doorway, and then looked back, smiling in a kind of dark cheerfulness. "And I'd be very well out of employment if you were absent."

The doors slid closed behind him, leaving behind an empty room, inhabited only by the dead and their gatekeeper.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you guys so much for the reviews, follows and favorites. You guys are awesome.

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

Rose Bellham was ninety five years old that day.

It was a big event. All her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were able to get together for the first time in a very, very long time. She'd smiled widely, greeted her guests with her usual enthusiasm, and thought that this was a very nice thing to go out with. If her husband could have been there, it would have been perfect, but he had come to her his entire life. It was her turn to finally come to him.

Rose Bellham was ninety five years old exactly, as the grandfather clock in her bedroom (Their bedroom. Always their bedroom) struck eleven forty three, and twenty two seconds. And she became no older.

The clock ticked down to a standstill, and froze.

She turned to meet the figure that stood waiting a few steps from the foot of her bed. He stared without a word, with shaded green eyes and darkness that clung to the immortal like a well-tailored cloak. She smiled at him, amused. There was a hint of the wild child she had once been, still in her eyes.

"Come to wish me a happy birthday?"

The figure shifted slightly.

**Happy Birthday, Rose.**

There was a small swell of warm air, barely perceptible, a touch of fondness, of pleasant surprise. It dissipated almost immediately after its conception.

**It's time to come with me.**

"Well, you're very forward. I'm not usually that type of girl, but," She grinned. "For you, I'll make an exception." Her gaze then prodded him intensely for a moment and she eyed him critically. "Lost your scythe, eh?"

**That's very old school. I don't usually carry it, but if it makes you feel better…**

The being extended the left arm out to the side, and curled his hand into the darkness. The darkness bent around its master's skeletal hand and _obeyed_. He brought his arm back in, and with it came a scythe, the handle seemed to be crafted from pure essence of night, darker than any substance on Earth, while the blade glinted in the lightless room, looking like liquid mercury, the surface shifting and changing constantly.

"That's more like it!" Rose nodded admirably. "Now I can bear to leave with you. You look respectable."

An uncertain pause from the figure. He twisted his scythe a bit awkwardly in both hands.

**…Thank you?**

"It'll be nice seeing Cecil again. Probably too old for him now though, it's been quite a while." She glanced fondly at a photo in a simple frame that stood on her bedside table, it was aged and held the image of handsome young man in an army uniform. He showed off two perfect dimples and a cowlick into the camera.

**I'm certain that's not the case, Rose**.

The figure then glided noiselessly forward, shape changing to accommodate the scythe. The blackness settled as more a cloak on the figure, and there was a glimpse of white bone; a bleached skull, features bent impossibly in an expression of neutrality, peered out from the hood. He lifted the scythe in both hands above his head, and without warning, fluidly and swiftly, came down upon Rose.

He then straightened and held out a skeletal hand. Rose took it and gracefully slid from her bed, her soul neatly severed from her body. She nodded, impressed, then glanced back at her prone form.

**I thought you'd appreciate the theatrics, even if it's a bit old fashioned**.

The skull twisted into a small smile, cracks appearing in the stark bone. Somewhere deep within the seemingly empty eye sockets, came a glint of green.

"I _am_ old fashioned!" Rose swatted his shoulder, or attempted to, her hand swept right through, the blackness sliding neatly aside to make way for her hand. "And I do appreciate it, very nice work."

**You remind me of someone. Someone I…know. Knew. Will know**.

A pause.

**Time is a funny thing. But you remind me of her. Penny**.

"She a special someone?" Rose wiggled her eyebrows in a manner that brought to mind someone that he shouldn't be thinking of right then.

**She's special. Very special. But not in the way you are thinking. Calm yourself, Rose Bellham**.

"Fine, fine."

**Now, come. We've delayed too long**.

Rose attempted to slip an arm through his and he tolerantly became more solid, and allowed her to. Death and Rose Bellham left together, Death's cloak rippling behind them.

The clock began ticking again.

Eleven forty three, and twenty three seconds.

Eleven forty three, and twenty four seconds.

Eleven forty three, and twenty five.

o-o

"I'm not sure about this…"

"Are you questioning your orders?"

"No, no, I'm not at all, but this…this doesn't seem like our kind of thing."

"I need to make sure. Can you do it? Or do I have to send someone more…able?"

"I can do it."

"Good."

"This seems more like a job for the other side."

"Just do it. I don't want to have to put out a wanted ad for a new prince."

"You don't have to worry. I'll handle it."

"Be sure that you do."

o-o

George was five years old. Well, five and three quarters to be exact. That kind of thing counts you know. Maybe adults don't think it counts, but it counts.

Or did count.

George knew he was sick. His mom and dad sat him down, after a long visit to the doctor's a year and a half ago, and said things he didn't really understand. He pretended to understand most of it though, he didn't want them to think he was a baby who didn't understand stuff. However, he did understand one thing: he was sick.

Not normal sick, the kind where you get to stay home from school, but real sick. Doctors and hospitals sick. But they told him he'd be okay, and he'd believed them immediately. (Though the bright new red fire truck helped too.)

George gaped in stunned silence at his parents' faces, frozen, expressions raw and jagged, through the glass observation window.

"Time of death: 4:12 pm, April 22nd." A small hand was laid gently down upon the operating table. George wondered whose hand.

A surgeon stood limply out of the way as other medical staff filed stiffly away, blending into the walls, painted with guilt and horror. Snatches of conversation, blurred and distorted made their way to George.

"Poor kid. Shit. Poor, poor kid."

"-complications during surgery."

"…was risky anyway…"

"Cancer. A brain tumor the size of a komquat. He didn't have a chance."

"-relapse."

"…only five years old too."

And three quarters. They always forgot the three quarters. George frowned slightly, feeling…something. He shook and sat down cross-legged on the floor, then scootched his knees to his chest and hugged them. They were…they were talking about him?

**Adults do always seem to forget the quarters. They don't realize how important they are**.

George's eyes darted fearfully to the new figure standing harmlessly next to him, peering innocently with invisible eyes at him. George curled tighter into a ball, and stared at himself. Lying on the table. Still. So still. Tears began to spill. He wiped them angrily away with a fist. Babies cried. He wasn't a baby.

**It's okay to cry. There's nothing wrong with it, George. I won't think any less of you**.

George wept into his arms, confused and frustrated and afraid. There was crackling, almost like a bonfire, as the figure in the shapeless robe folded intricately in on itself to crouch down at the child's eye level. A light breeze gently caressed his cheeks and he turned to the figure. Now, in its place, kneeled a man, a bit spindly, awkward, but warm and kind. He smiled sadly.

"I-I wanna go home…"

"I'm so sorry, but I can't do that, George." The man said softly.

"Why can't you?! I won't tell anyone, I promise!"

The man's smile fell away a moment, and he pressed his lips tightly together as if in pain. He sat down cross-legged next to George.

"I…George, do you… do you know about death? What happens when people die?"

"They go to heaven." He replied automatically. "I learned that in church school." He then stared intently at the man. "Am I…dead?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry."

"But I can't be." George's brow furrowed. "I'm only five and three quarters. Mama and daddy promised me a big birthday party, with a-a bounce house, and a puppy! They said they'd get me a puppy." His bottom lip began to wobble violently. "I'm scared. I wanna go home. Please." Tears welled, and he closed his eyelids tightly.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it's okay, George. Don't be afraid." The man gingerly moved to crouch awkwardly in front of George. "Have you ever been on an adventure?" An uncertain answering head shake. "This is just like an adventure, George."

Eyes cracked open. "Like being pirates? Or cowboys?"

"Sort of. I'm going to be there with you the whole time. I promise, I'll keep you safe." The man smiled warmly, stood and extended a hand to George, who uncertainly took it and stood as well.

"Who're you?"

"I'm…a friend. A guide, just for you, George. And where you're going, you'll love it. I promise. I don't want to ruin the surprise though." The man smiled conspiratorially. George grinned despite himself. He loved surprises.

"That's cool! But…but what about my Mama and Daddy?"

The man's smile iced over, and his eyes emptied of emotion. His humanity was stripped away, leaving the hard alien surface scraped clean at the surface. George cowered. The man seemed to notice and corrected himself into something more human. Sadness was in every crease of his still young looking face, aging him ten years.

"They have to stay here for now." George's face crumpled and the man knelt to his level. "But I promise, you'll see them again. Not right now, but soon." The man's eyes pierced his own. "I promise, George."

"I just wanna go home."

"I know. I know. But you just can't anymore."

George's lip wobbled, but he then took a deep breath and squared narrow shoulders. He was five and three quarters. It was time to be a man. He wasn't a baby any longer. "Okay."

The man squeezed George's shoulders encouragingly, and stood. And the man led him away from the corpse formerly known as George Stiles, five and three quarters years old, dead at 4:12 pm on April 22nd, and into the next life.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

* * *

Ziva and Tony stood together in front of the plasma, a sad frown on Ziva's lips, a bitter one on Tony's. Tim raised his eyebrows at them as he entered the bullpen, shrugging his bag off behind his desk.

"What is it?"

Tony glanced at him then nodded back to the breaking news report currently making its way across the plasma. "They found another kid." He said, voice void of emotion.

"Oh." Tim said hollowly, and, left with nothing else to do, joined them in front of the screen, feeling a touch ill.

They watched in a heavy, suffocating silence, in a way war refugees look over lists of the dead for a familiar name; it was a feeling of dread and repellence of the action, but the inability to stop. Footage of police retrieving a body came up on the screen, grainy and just out of focus, but one could see, sickeningly, the body bag that laid on the gurney for a few seconds before it passed out of sight. It was so small.

Several syllables that Tim didn't recognize dripped venomously from Ziva's lips, they were so hot and fury laden that they almost glowed a livid white. Tim was distantly surprised that they didn't set the floor on fire. It was a curse, the tone recognized across all languages, all walks of life.

"Seconded. Whatever the hell you said, seconded." Tony said evenly, anger lurking controlled, just underneath the surface. "There are some sick bastards in this world."

All three continued watching the news, all the words that were appropriate already said. Gibbs entered and stood behind them for a moment, silent. He then spoke up.

"We've got work to do. This isn't our problem." This last statement made it very clear that he dearly wished it was their problem. That if let off the chain, they'd have to collect what was left of the one responsible in a single evidence bag. No one moved for a second. "Go." Came the low growl.

Slowly, the team drifted apart to their separate desks. Tony turned off the plasma and set the remote onto his desktop with a venom the remote didn't deserve and then faced his computer, eyes almost burning holes in the screen. After a minute, he stood and stalked over and then into the elevator. The door shut.

Ziva silently stood as well, exchanged a glance that walked the line between shared anger and worry with Tim, and followed after Tony.

Gibbs still stood near the plasma, watching the blank screen with a focus that made Tim uncomfortable.

"Boss?" Tim asked weakly, hoping desperately to break the silence. Without a word, Gibbs departed as well. He didn't look back.

Tim grimaced to himself, shut his eyes, and rubbed them wearily. They were such good kids too, sweet and fearless. They weren't afraid as he came to guide them somewhere better, just curious. They didn't deserve a visit from him. (Did anyone?)

"You okay, McGee?"

Tim's eyes popped open, and he glanced up. Jimmy stood in front of him, head tilted slightly to the side. "Oh, yes, fine. How about you, Palmer?"

"Okay, I guess." Jimmy shifted uncertainly. "You hear about the new kid they found?"

"Unfortunately."

An ill look passed over Jimmy's face and then came back and set up camp. "Did you hear about-you know, what…happened to them?"

_I didn't need to hear about it. I saw it first-hand._ Tim swallowed. "Yeah, I did."

"How can someone do that? To kids?" Jimmy looked devastated and lost. Tim bit the inside of his cheek. Don't do anything stupid. Don't do anything stupid. Don't do- "I don't understand people sometimes. How can they do this kind of stuff and just get away with it"? There was a slight tremor in Jimmy's voice, a hopelessness that cracked Tim just a little, slipped in before defenses could be strengthened, drove a sword of righteousness into all sensibilities.

"Don't worry, they'll catch the guy soon, Jimmy." Take my word on it. Tim gave Jimmy a small smile that seemed pained if looked upon at a certain angle. Jimmy eyed him in confusion, but didn't question his certainty.

"I hope so. Bye, McGee."

"See you, Palmer."

Had Tim been at the top of his game, he would have noticed something was wrong. Recognized it immediately, and dealt with it. But right then…right then, the flaw stood right before his eyes, looked him full in the face, and he saw nothing.

Jimmy exited the bullpen, rounded the corner, and once he exited Tim's sight, involuntarily doubled over, leaning against a wall for support. A black substance, a mix of thick, choking smoke and something like tar, dribbled swiftly from his mouth, and then soaked through the carpet, leaving behind no stain. No evidence it was ever there at all. After a second, Jimmy straightened up, trembling, eyes glassy, without memory of the last few minutes. After a second, he went on with his day, the only memento of this experience, a swiftly fading feeling of wrongness.

Tim bit his lip, and then decisively grabbed his phone, fumbling with it for a moment, and then gaining some control. He dialed a number that he shouldn't have known, and attempted to calm his breathing. It didn't work.

o-o

"Hello, Agent John Berkley-"

"Yes, FBI, I know. I have information about the child killer along the East coast that you're investigating."

"..."

"Agent Berkley?"

"How...how did you get this number-how the hell did you know I was on this-"

"Listen closely. He's at 24 Hall Oates Street in Dell, Maryland. It's an old Victorian style house. He's armed, bring back up."

"How-"

"Got that? He's going to kill again. Soon."

"Who is this?!"

"Take the information and stop him."

"How the hell do you even know this?"

"…Good luck, Agent Berkley. Catch him, please."

"Wait! I need-damn it!"

o-o

Tim hung up the phone with a loud clack. He closed his eyes tightly and then touched the phone with a finger. Several small, vivid blue veins spiraled across the phone and then seeped into the plastic.

o-o

"You got a location?"

"No, you needed to keep him on the line longer."

"Did you get anything?"

"…"

"What?"

"I…I don't know. I don't have anything. No approximate location, no number, nothing. And listen to this."

"Static."

"I recorded the tail end of your conversation, I know I did! But it's not here. It's just…nothing."

"How is that possible?"

"…Damn machines could be faulty."

"You don't believe that."

"No. You going to check this out? Could be a trap…"

"I know, but I think I am. I'll bring a few guys. It's too solid and oddly specific to be ignored. Who knows…could just be some concerned civilian. Who happens to know my number. And that I'm assigned to this case. We could get lucky for once."

"I hope so. Pretty freaking weird though."

"You're telling me."

o-o

Tim lifted his finger from the phone, and let his arms drift down to settle on the desk. Maybe that would still the trembles that were working their way through his body.

He'd crossed a line. Not even a very thin line. A big fat, glow-in-the-dark line. And there was no going back.

Crap.

o-o

A man watches this from across the bullpen. He watches with eyes of stone, the patience of a sniper, but the hands of a healer. He tilts his head as Azrael is lost, teeth clicking together, dark, dark eyes contracting minutely. He then inclines his head upward. It almost seems, for a moment, that light has ringed itself around his head in an unnatural soft glow.

Within a fraction of a second, he is gone, leaving behind a faint whiff of ozone, which disperses promptly.

o-o

"I did as you asked, my lord. I tempted him."

"See, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

"I tempted Death. Nothing good can come of this."

"No, nothing good or evil will. So…?"

"…"

"Go on."

"…You won't like it."

"Tell me."

"Will you smite me?"

"Probably. But I always bring you back anyway."

"…He took it, my lord. I tempted Death and he succumbed. He didn't even notice me inside that human! This isn't going to end w-gack!" There was a wet whump and a need for extra-strength carpet cleaner.

"Shit. Damn it all, Azrael."

o-o

"He's fallen, Lord. Azrael, he's…lost."

"Are you certain?"

"Raphael believes it to be so. He has returned from watching Azrael."

"…Go talk to Azrael."

"Is there anything that can be done?"

"There is always another path to be traveled. Though I don't know if it's the preferable one."

"Lord, we must take action!"

"Calm yourself."

"My Lord, the time for being calm has passed! We must-"

"Just speak to him, Michael."

"My Lord-"

"Go, Michael."

A pause. The sound of flapping feathers. Silence.

A sigh.

Entire galaxies vanish with a tiny pop, a million more are born. Lives end and begin. Generations traverse a planet and die out.

He watches, and He thinks.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

The two men circled the bullpen like sharks, silent, waiting. Tim inwardly cursed his recent lack of instinct for not noticing them sooner. He knew this would happen.

It was the way they moved. He caught brief flashes of each man every so often, moving fluidly around people, between desks, up the staircase, but in a way that the eyes just slid off them. The way that a focused picture could never be established, like a permanent motion blur. They were never near one another either. Always turning away at each possible moment of interception, as if they were blocking not just all the mortals-

-but each other. Tim froze.

They weren't together. _They weren't together._

Tim stood abruptly, and began to walk to the elevator attempting to keep his pace above conspicuously slow, but below instant straitjacket, panicked speed. If the two men happened to see each other in the crowded building…well, he'd be getting a lot more work that day. There's a reason the forces of Heaven and Hell don't have an annual get together to discuss feelings, play volleyball, and exchange potato salad.

"McGee?" Gibbs asked evenly, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, from his desk.

"I…I…um, coffee." Tim finally settled on that after floundering for a moment. He turned sharply and boarded the elevator before Gibbs could protest, surreptitiously jamming his finger into the door close button. The door slid shut.

Gibbs watched the door, expression unchanging. "Dinozzo." Tony's eyes slid to Gibbs, ready for what he knew was coming next. "He might need a little help with whatever the hell he's really doing."

"On it." Tony said with an affirmative nod. He placed his gun in his holster, shouldered his coat and dashed off to the stairwell.

Tim exited the elevator and curved out the front entrance, he turned both ways and then spun in a harried circle, cogs turning. Okay, somewhere not too crowded, scratch that, not crowded at all, and with enough room to leave several options open. He decided, and walked off toward Willard Park, impossibly avoiding being hit by several cars as he crossed the road.

Tony exited the building, and quickly scanned around. His brow furrowed slightly as he spotted his target barely avoid the last car before stepping over the curb and continuing into the park.

"What the hell are you doing, McGee?" Tony said to himself, and followed with a brisk, but decidedly more cautious, trot across the road.

Tim stopped as the sound of the road faded, and slumped down upon a bench toward the middle of the park. And he waited. He wouldn't have to wait long at all, he knew that. The forces of Heaven and Hell were never ones for delaying orders, and these were definitely orders. Probably straight from the top too. Well, and the bottom, in a manner of speaking.

"McGee? What are you doing?" Tony, opting for a more direct approach than stealth tactics, strode up beside the bench, looking uncertain but determined. He gave the area a wary once over before turning back to Tim.

Tim leapt up, paling considerably. "Tony!" He frantically glanced around the empty area. "You can't be here."

"What? McGee, what the hell is going on with you?"

"Tony, I'm sorry, I can't explain, you just need to leave. Now." Tim pleaded, and then stopped. His heart dropped as he realized what he was hearing. Besides their conversation, all other noises had gradually dimmed and gone out like blown light bulbs. There was complete silence. Tony shivered and placed a hand on his gun, feeling the sudden onrush of emptiness as well. An overwhelming sense of foreboding. Tim turned back to Tony. "Don't say anything and don't do anything, no matter what you hear. Please, Tony. Listen to me for once." Before Tony could utter a single syllable, Tim touched two fingers to his forehead.

When two sound waves going in opposite directions meet, it creates interference, both constructive and destructive. With destructive, the amplitudes of the waves decrease significantly. The sound is lessened, sometimes to the point of cancelling each other out. Things get a little fuzzy. It wasn't that Tony vanished or became invisible, his signal just got a bit interfered with.

It wasn't foolproof, Tim knew that, but it would have to do. He just had to keep full concentration, maintain it. He had to. He didn't want to think about the outcome if he lost control.

"Please, Tony." Tim whispered, the sound barely caught by Tony's ears.

"McG-" The word met its unfortunate end half way out of his lips as the two men appeared in front of Tim, several feet apart. Tim resisted savoring the trickle of relief that slipped down his spine with the dread, that Tony might actually make his life easier and follow something he said. Tim took a breath, and stopped the time outside them dead.

_Showtime_. Tim cracked his immortal knuckles.

"Michael. Beelzebub." He greeted conversationally. The two men froze as they finally saw each other. There was a split second of mutual shock, all planned actions forced to a screeching stop, that Tim quickly took advantage of. The second ended.

"Demon." Michael growled out, the statement rolling like thunder, shaking the Earth, full of wrath that caked the tongue with the metallic taste of blood.

"Angel." The reply from Beelzebub was oily, slick, confident, and brimming with steely rage, ready to be tapped in the fight that was assured to happen.

Michael's sword, the full size version of the one that was now missing on the chain around his neck, burst into white flames in his hand, terrible and beautiful. Tim could feel Tony recoil slightly next to him, shock succumbing to confusion and horror. He doubled the cloak around Tony. Beelzebub flashed a shorter more wicked looking sword with what looked like blood eternally sliding down the shining, dark blade. He caressed the hilt with both hands and separated it into two identical short swords that he twirled nervously in each hand. He looked less confident than Michael, but more determined. He knew he couldn't win a fight with someone so much more powerful than him.

That didn't bode well. It wouldn't just be the park, they'd gave to cordon off a three mile wide crater if the fight started.

The two bolted toward each other.

There were two gentle, identical pings, as Michael and Beelzebub bounced slightly against an invisible barrier, and stopped cold. Michael scanned the area between him and his foe. He experimentally raised his hand, and placed it on thin air, pressing his fingertips into the barrier that now existed between them.

Beelzebub, raised an eyebrow. "Really, Az?"

"Release me, Azrael." Michael ordered, every word formed from iron, cold, detached, and to be obeyed at all costs. Tim glanced between the two, all the while feeling Tony react to the name they called him. He could taste the confusion. Damn it. He pressed his lips together and gave them both a one shouldered shrug.

"I assume both of you came here for a reason besides a petty catfight." Tim asked, tone loose and calm. Michael's sword burned brighter and he struck the barrier with enough force disintegrate a man and leave behind only a red mist. It did nothing. Beelzebub tensed and gripped his swords more tightly. Drops of thick inhuman blood fell from the sword tips, and stained the ground.

Tim frowned. "Stop overreacting, Michael."

Michael battered the barrier with even more ferocity, teeth bared. "Overreacting?" The word was pure venom. "My dear, Azrael, you don't even know how far you've gone over the line." With every word, Michael struck the barrier harder. Blinding light was beginning to shine from his eye sockets and crack through his skin. Beelzebub blinked, and a pure scarlet color the shade of fresh blood flowed across his eyes. Drops of pure night began to leak from his fingertips, onto the sculpted hilts of his swords, and hiss upon contact with the ground.

It was like one of those nature documentaries behind each of the immortals, where footage of the seasons changing is increased up to incredible speeds.

Behind Michael, the forest bloomed in a terrible kind of way, trees' branches curled around each other, tangling, growing wicked thorns, strangling each other. Grass wound itself around Michael's legs and then fanned outward, yellowing where they'd touched him. The flowers trembled as they grew fuller and fuller, petals gaining a nasty stain of red, bulbs seeming like they might pop. Everything gave off a sense of pure agony at the sudden forced acceleration of growth.

The opposite seemed to be happening behind Beelzebub. Leaves browned, the color spreading like a disease, and they dropped to the ground. Around him and growing, was a perfect circle of dead grass. Trees began to droop, now dead leaves abandoning their perches, branches atrophying. Flowers withered, crackling and falling across one another like a mass grave.

The carnage pulsed determinedly at the edges of Tim's barrier, desperate to continue their paths, to consume until there was nothing left. The plants on Michael's side began to slowly burn.

They were losing all control. Tim felt Tony begin to quiver beside him. He surreptitiously glanced over. Tony was paling, eyes impossibly wide, horrified, uncomprehending. A blush began to spread across his cheeks, and his breaths came more frequently and shallower. Tim realized. Damn, damn, damn. They were beginning to show their true forms.

Sweat was beginning to bead on Tim's forehead.

Either expose Tony, save him from becoming a nice little pile of ash on the ground, and risk not being able to stop two powerhouses from ripping him to pieces, or allow him to fry from being accidentally exposed to the pure power of Heaven and Hell.

Tim stopped the frequency and threw up shield around Tony, hoping that neither Michael nor Beelzebub would reveal their true forms. Even Death couldn't protect him from a face full of angelic Grace. And then? Then Tim would be forced to reap him.

Tony gave off a shudder that rippled through him like a minor earthquake.

"What the hell was that?" Tony breathed unsteadily, then seemed to come to terms with certain elements of what was happening there. He steadied himself the best he could and drew his gun, gyrating his aim between Michael and Beelzebub. Tim realized with a small pang of guilt that Tony just barely stopped himself from aiming his gun at Tim the first time. He attempted to convey a hell of a lot of remorse with a look. It didn't seem to work.

Still looking at Tony, Tim blinked, and listened. Silence. No crackle of trees as they burned or slight whine of flowers as they bent to touch the ground. Tim slowly turned back to the two beings. Everything had frozen mid-annihilation.

"Az," Beelzebub whispered, looking horrified.

Michael blinked. "Azrael, you brought-" He stopped, choking on words that seemed so unbelievable that they couldn't be uttered.

"You brought one of your pets?" Beelzebub finished harshly, acid tainting his voice. Tony's eyes flickered between Tim and the two beings, and for once, he said nothing, instead opting to shift his grip more securely on his gun. "Damn it, Azrael. Do you realize how far off the reservation you've gone?" Beelzebub anxiously fisted his hair, trapped somewhere between a rage burning like hellfire, and a sort of pure disbelief.

"You know you must reap him now, Azrael. And then you must come with me." Michael stated without inflection, eyes cold, flames from his sword still hungrily licking the air.

"It isn't his time." Tim stared down Michael, eyes like endless pits through the center of the world, pure power emanating from them.

"He has witnessed everything. He's a risk that can't be allowed to continue."

Beelzebub, tightening his grip on his sword, spoke, "I'd hate to agree with Holier than Thou, but…" He shrugged. Michael looked momentarily conflicted between confidence at finding an ally, and fury that the one attempting to be his new buddy was a high-level demon that he had been trying to kill a few moments earlier. "Your pet's a loose end. And if a loose end gets caught on something, the whole sweater can unravel." Michael eyed Beelzebub quizzically. He shrugged again.

Tim resisted the overwhelming urge to laugh. He felt it really might not help his case, rather it would confirm what was already general consensus. This was just not his time.

Oh, to he…to heav…to purgatory with it. Tim turned to Tony. "You…um, well, you might want to look away, Tony."

"McGee, whatever you think you're doing, stop it." Tony growled in what Tim vaguely recognized as a weak strain of his signature I'm-senior-field-agent-and-not-messing-around-this-time-so-listen-to-me-damn-it voice, though it wavered too uncertainly in several spots for Tony's regular gloss to cover. "I don't know what the hell's going on, but I can tell it isn't some happy-go-lucky picnic." Tony uttered quietly. Tim gave him an apologetic glance. "Hey!" Tony called sharply, and aimed his weapon at Beelzebub, who was now experimentally probing the edges of Tim's barrier. "Stay still, Buddy, or I'll be forced to give you a few more holes to breathe through. Put down your weapons." His eyes flicked to Michael. "Both of you."

Michael gave him an alien look, ancient and removed, inhuman. "You dare order me like an equal, man?" The last word came out coated in disgust. His benign, average features were twisted inhumanly, furious and terrified and yet somehow strangely beautiful.

Tony opened his mouth to respond with something probably movie themed, and most definitely snarky. Tim placed a hand on his arm, stopping the reply, and smiled weakly. "No, Tony. And please, let me handle this. Please, Tony. Don't watch." He took a deep breath, one that would have blown apart any mortal that would have attempted it, and turned back to Michael and Beelzebub. "It isn't his time. But when it is, believe me," Tim gave them a small smile. "You two'll be the second and third person I call."

There was a moment of ballooning silence.

"You know what?" All eyes zipped over to Beelzebub. He tucked his sword under his arm, threaded his fingers together, and, almost experimentally, began to pop each knuckle. "It's been a fucking long day long, and I've been obliterated several times too many for comfort." His sword began to drip blood-like substance onto the back of his expensive suit and trousers. He either didn't care or didn't notice, and kept cracking his knuckles. "I say we just tear Az's pet apart, and scatter the atoms over…I don't know, the Milky Way. See how long it takes him to pick up all the pieces." He seemed to finish, and took up his sword again. Beelzebub ran a hand down the still sleek line of his suit. "Might help him sort out things when he's forced to reap his new appendage out of pity. Plus, I need a little something to relax."

Michael looked once again conflicted. "I…have never allied myself with a demon."

"There's a first time for everything, Mikey." Beelzebub smiled dirty, tainted needles. Michael seemed to waver. Tim bit his lip. He didn't have time for this. If they worked together, he'd be fishing molecules of Tony from between the rings of Saturn for the rest of eternity.

"Tony, please. Look away." He pleaded, voice barely above a breath, and then allowed his humanity to fall away.

"McGee-" Tony shot back sharply, but stopped, air sucked forcibly from his lungs. Tim seemed to crumple in on himself, and something else emerged from his skin. Tony felt an insistent, almost gravitational pull toward the being, something deep inside him drifted toward it in a way he found deeply unsettling. The pull was gentle, but was swiftly gaining strength. He stumbled away, limbs frantically attempting to rediscover their functions.

The being straightened up even higher, unfolding like a slow motion jack in the box, expanding until it towered over them all. It swept out an arm, and a skeletal hand emerged from the sleeve. It grasped at the air and a scythe formed around it, the blade shining in a way that stilled hearts and lurked in the darkness of nightmares, glinting, waiting. A skull, smile contorted into the stark bone, peeked out from under a cowl, staring at Michael and Beelzebub.

The being finally stood straight, aura of pure power throbbing from it. Tony clutched at his chest as the essence that seemed weaved into his very being, tugged hard toward the reaper. Threads that tethered it to him stretched, straining, eager to snap and rip from him. His back thunked dully against a tree and he sank to the ground. Tony would never admit, even under the most creative of tortures (Even…Lifetime movies. Tony shuddered.) but at that moment, he let out a tiny whimper.

Michael and Beelzebub stared. Beelzebub in barely disguised horror, Michael in uncontained wrath, stained with a splash of fear. Wind without a source began to rip around them, rending clothing, tossing hair, plucking their ties to that world one by one.

The Reaper extended its other hand, bones clicking as they moved to point first at Beelzebub, then at Michael, moving smoothly, serenely.

**You've lingered where you don't belong for too long**.

"Azrael, the world is going to end! Reality will tear itself apart!" Michael shrieked over the wind, eyes wide in desperation. He straddled the line between livid and terrified. "Not even our Father knows the outcome!"

Beelzebub shrank back, swords melting back into his hands, though he stared at Death with a certain resigned weariness. "He's right, Az. The whole fucking world's going to swallow itself in fire and ice, and nothing will exist anymore. Even you." He said in a quavering voice, and though it wasn't too loud it echoed horribly in the park.

**Begone**.

Death, hand still outstretched, snapped the fingers into a fist. There was a cacophony of cracks and horrible grinding noises as the bones crashed together.

The two beings were gone, leaving behind two perfect circles of destruction, like a twisted yin yang symbol, puckered scars that would never truly fade.

And suddenly Tim was there once again. The last bit to fade was the scythe, which wavered imploringly, like a devoted pet, before vanishing from his hand.

He dashed over to Tony, and knelt by his side. Tony's eyes stared vacantly.

"Tony, are you okay?" The words spilled out instinctively. Tim winced at the stupidity of the question, and then noticed the hand clutched to Tony's chest. He frowned, worry lines deepening to rival the Grand Canyon. "I told you not to look." Tim murmured in half-hearted irritation.

He leaned over, stretched his own hand, slightly shaking, over Tony's and then paused as if in some vain hope Tony would snap to. Tony remained catatonic. He placed his hand upon Tony's, and then through Tony's, going into the chest, beyond the flesh. His fingers brushed Tony's essence which wrapped eagerly around his hand, and for a moment, Tony's heart beat joined his own as they entwined, becoming one. Tim yanked his hand away at the rush of power that crackled through him. Something snapped back into place. Tony's eyes widened impossibly, and he drew a shuddering breath.

Tim fell back, away from Tony, drawing his hand close to his body. He moved back to Tony's side, tremors intermittently making their way through his body.

"Your soul's still there. That's good." Tim said lamely, roughly, catching the breath stolen from him. "Not many who have seen me can say that. Actually, none can. Well, now you can, so it's not none anymore." Tim babbled in the way of one who knows that The Big Talk is going to come soon, and oh so dearly wants to start running, and never stop. Tony blinked blearily at him. "Though it must have tried to separate from you when I…" He made a not very descriptive hand motion. "I'm sorry about all of…that, Tony." Tim glanced backward at the destruction and said softly, mostly to himself, "They won't be back soon." The last words glowed a low-key cherry color, and sizzled as they touched the cool air.

Tony leveraged himself up into a sitting position against the tree, entirely unaware of when he had slumped that low. "And what was-" He copied the gesture Tim had made the best he could, attempting to make it mocking at the same time, still massaging his chest with the other hand "-that? All of that?!" He panted, straining to get everything back in working order. It was like some idiot had flicked the total lockdown switch, and now all the tech had to reboot.

Tim opened his mouth, then shut it again with a snap. He shifted uncertainly. Tony eyed him, and began to leverage himself into a standing position, grasping the tree behind him like his first born child. Any color he had gained back drained back out of his face as he changed orientation.

Tim watched in shock. "Tony, you shouldn't try and get up so soon after-"

"Yeah, McNurse? Well, I've never been one for following Doctor's orders. You should know that." The accusation and anger in that last statement was milder than Tim expected but he still winced. Tony clung to the tree for a moment, pallid but determined, and then pushed off. Tim stood, preparing to cushion a fall. Tony teetered and then gained his sea legs. He strode off a shade unsteadily, hands gripped into fists, looking like he was about to be very, very ill.

Tim watched him go, completely and utterly stunned, and then he smiled. Anyone else would have been floored by anything like this, but Tony? Tony got smashed in the face with a two doses of skin-melting angelic grace, then witnessed Death himself without losing his soul, and then walked away a few minutes later.

"Let's go, McGee! You've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and I need a drink."

"It's two o'clock, Tony." Tim reminded him, and scurried after Tony, still anticipating some sort of collapse. He wasn't looking forward to the talk that was imminent. Maybe, Tony would forget-

"It's going to happen, McGoo. After work. You can count on that."

"You should take it easy, Tony. Go home-" He started hopefully.

"Can it, McGee!"

Tim sighed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

* * *

"Let me get this straight. You knew this would happen?"

"Lucifer-"

"You _knew_ this would happen?!"

"Be calm."

"Be calm? You expect me be fucking calm?! Why did you allow that fool to mingle with your favorite pet project if you knew he was going to go rogue?"

"It is all part of the plan."

"Oh, the plan. The ineffable plan! Plan for what? To possibly end all of creation? To skip right over the apocalypse and rapture? What? Didn't think any of that was 'Need to know'?!"

Silence.

"This is the reason I rebelled in the first place." The words are quiet, almost regretful, and full of bitterness.

"Not the only reason."

A pause. A sigh. Admittance. "No, not the only reason. But one of them. This kind of bullshit." Another pause. "It's funny. The only time you've ever been truthful to me was after I fell." The tone implied this was the furthest thing from being humorous.

"…You defied me, Lucifer, and you paid a price."

"I don't regret what I did."

"I do not expect you too. But I wish it with all my being."

"Thanks, Dad, for being so understanding. Father of the year award right there. You can come to Hell. Or at least send a damn fruit basket once in a while."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

* * *

Tim peeked over the menu top for the sixth time in the space of five minutes. Tony was still staring him, eyes practically boring holes through Tim's forehead. He caught Tim's glance and quirked his eyebrows. He wasn't even pretending to look over the small restaurant's menu. Tim sunk behind his menu again.

There was a small vase of flowers sitting in the middle of the table. Tim glared at them as if they were the root of all his problems.

The waitress came over, glanced between the two of them, and then smiled widely. Tim rubbed his eyes and decided to let it slide just once, he was too tired.

"Anything I can get you two?" Honey dripped from her words.

"Just water for now, thank you." Tim gave her a small smile, suddenly he wasn't very hungry.

"The same for me." Tony echoed in a neutral tone, then actually looked up at the waitress. He smiled charmingly. "Actually, could we see your wine list? It's kind of a special occassion." He reached across the table and entwined his fingers with Tim's. Tim flushed hotly and sputtered. Tony gave him a tender smile. "One year anniversary."

"Oh, of course!" The waitress chirped, brunette curls bouncing as she nodded. She glided away, eyes sparkling. Tim yanked his hand away and out of Tony's reach, and then shot him a look that attempted to be frustrated and pissed off, but missed the mark by a mile and finally settled on weary.

"Was that necessary, Tony?"

"Since you've apparently been sneaking around behind all our backs, doing…something really high on the freaky scale, yeah, I think it was."

Silence quickly ballooned up between then. Tony finally gave a tight smile.

"Am I going to have to ask, McSecrative? Or are you just going to spill?"

Tim sighed. "Tony-"

"Eh," Tony held up a hand, cutting him off. "No excuses. Answers. Go." The waitress arrived with the wine list. Tony ordered one of the most expensive wines on the list, and a basket of bread. She left.

"I hope you're not expecting me to pay for all of that." Tim said in a flat voice.

"Depends on if you tell me the truth, Tim."

"It's…complicated, Tony." More complicated than you could ever understand.

"Try me." Tony replied immediately, as if he could hear Tim's thoughts. He began to casually fold the napkin into a plane.

"No, you don't understand how complicated! I don't think you'd even believe me."

"Then what do you have to lose, McEvasive?"

Tim paused, before breathing out, "Everything."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Tony eyed him, and then seemed to reach a decision to not pursue that train of thought. "McGee, I'm your partner. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?" He said reasonably, finished his surprisingly complex napkin plane and placed it next to the glass of flowers in the middle of the table. "And plus, if you don't, I will come over to your apartment and bug you, every single morning, until you do." He threaded his fingers together and stared patiently.

Tim raised an eyebrow. He had never truly been on the receiving end of Tony's I'm-a-Federal-Agent-and-you-are-going-to-tell-me-what-you-know-whether-you-like-it-or-not stare. It was both unnerving and comforting at the same time. He rubbed his face.

"Okay. Fine." Tim conceded wearily. "Just…Tony, you're not going to believe me. You're going to think I'm insane."

"Yeah, after what I saw in the park a few hours ago…I don't think so."

The bread finally arrived at their table. Tim gave the waitress a thin smile held together with only good intentions and fading hopes. She left feeling a bit empty.

Tim pressed his hands together in an almost praying position, as if that would help, and then steepled them.

And then he told Tony everything.

Tony listened, wide-eyed, but never interrupted. Every time the waitress attempted to return to take their order, he waved her away, and then just finally ordered them both something random on the menu. She winked at him when he ordered for Tim, but he didn't notice.

Tim finished, and then glanced down in gentle surprise at the, now stone-cold, plate of pasta sitting before him. His eyes flicked back up to look at Tony, who was staring uncertainly at him.

"So…" Tim began, but stopped when he realized he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"…You sure you're not crazy, McGee?" Tony asked, voice low, a spattering of hopefulness tinting it.

"Yes. Very."

"Okay." There was a long pause. "I never expected My Dinner with Andre to turn into The Seventh Seal." Tony said in an oddly detached voice.

"Um…how are you feeling, Tony?" Tim hazarded, now stirring the pasta with his fork in a vain hope for a slight distraction.

"Crazy. Because I think I…might actually believe you."

"What?"

"Don't make me repeat it, McGee. I will slap you silly." The words came out a little muffled as they struggled around the hand now placed across the center of Tony's face. Tim stared, moon-faced. A minute passed. The hand whipped off Tony's face and a finger jabbed at Tim. He flinched, startled. "Okay, okay, let me get this straight. You," The finger practically touched Tim's nose as it bungeed toward him again. "Are freaking Death, and back there," The finger launched in the general direction of the Navy Yard. "Were some angels of the Big Man, who, incidentally, exists." The words bunched up together as Tony rapidly spit them out, voice rising in volume with every word.

Tim raised both hands placatingly, head snapping around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. "Tony, please. And actually, one of them was a demon, Beelzebub-" He hissed and was cut off again.

"Demon. So Old Scratch is in the cast list too? Great. Would that be before the Big Kahuna and his number one angel, or after?"

"Keep your voice down, Tony."

"They probably just think we're religious nuts, McGee. No one's going to take us seriously." A pause. "I can't believe I'm taking us seriously!" He was about to run a hand through his hair when he caught himself, and instead, patted it lightly, and smoothed down several rogue spikes. "Wait, can you tell me this stuff? Isn't it like…angelic fight club?"

"It is, sort of. I've kind of…" Tim swallowed. "Fallen off the band wagon?"

Tony cocked his head to the side, and began to nibble half-heartedly on a breadstick. "You fell? Aren't you on the dark side now then?"

"It doesn't work like that. At least, not for me."

"Okay. So, McDeath, why do you kill people?"

Tim flinched, the movement jarring his entire body. "I don't." He replied harshly. Tony's body stiffened ever so slightly, threat detected. Tim could detect the taste of uncertainty and caution spill gently into the air. He took a deep breath_. You've just informed the closest thing you have to a friend that you're the immortal angel of death. Pull it together or you'll lose him too_. "I don't kill anyone."

"Well, this'll be good." Tony commented airily and slumped back into a more comfortable position, though Tim could still sense the caution lingering unobtrusively in the back. "You're Death. How do you not kill people?"

Tim pressed his lips tightly together. This was getting into information that only he had the knowledge of. "…Every living thing has a set time and date where it'll cease to exist on this plane. Its' soul won't belong here anymore. And at that time, I'm there." He licked his lips. "I'm the reaperman. I separate the soul from the body, and I guide them to the next plane."

"When the hell do you have the time to do this? I mean, someone must have died while we were talking, and you didn't leave."

Tim gave Tony a smile that was almost skeletal, empty and hollow, like an imitation of a real grin. Or a puppet, strings being pulled every which way. Tony resisted the urge to shudder. "I'm Death, Tony. I'm everywhere." He intoned softly.

"How can you tell?"

"When someone's going to die?" Tony nodded. "I can see," Tim paused and raised a hand. It ghosted over his face without ever brushing the skin. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, picking letters out the Scrabble bag in his brain, attempting to find words that would fit. "I see-it's like a clock. An analog clock, counting down, emanating from the very soul, projected like a billboard on every living thing." Tim's eyes settled onto Tony. Through Tony. Piercing his outer shell, skin, muscle, blood, organs. He looked ancient. Tony realized that Tim was checking his expiration date.

"Can you-"

"No."

"You don't even know-"

"I know, Tony. And, no. I just…can't do it." And Tim looked at him with immortal eyes that swallowed him whole. Tony watched as stars died and entire galaxies perished, as Earth blipped out of existence and all things ended. Except for one. And then there was nothing. Tim blinked, and Tony slumped back into his chair, the restaurant dominating his vision once more. "I won't tell you." Tim looked him straight in the eyes again, though they stayed normal, silent pleading blatant. "I just can't."

Tony, uncharacteristically, dropped that line of thinking for the time, placing it on the backburner for another time. "So, anyone else here about to die?"

"Really, Tony?"

Tony shrugged, grinned, and then took a larger bite out of the breadstick.

Tim rolled his eyes helplessly and glanced around, though that was mostly for show. He knew without looking. "Well," He said after a few minutes. "These flowers are about to go." He rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded to the glass of flowers on their table. Tony prodded the begonias with a finger.

"Really?"

"Give or take a couple hours."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Going to share with the class, McDeath?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"C'mon. It's Take Your Human Buddy to Work day. I want to see your other job. I assume it has drop-dead great benefits?" Tony grinned.

Tim glared at Tony, but said nothing. He let his eyelids slide down like shutters. Tony paused in his ravaging of the breadbasket, brow furrowed. Without warning, Tim's hand shot across the table and latched onto his own, and everything seemed to flicker, like static on an old television, colors fading and then popping up again like camera flashes. Tony tugged fruitlessly on his hand, attempting to wrench it away, and any words that he tried to say were snuffed out of existence as they formed in his throat. He stared, horrified, mind irrationally focusing on finding a movie to compare this to. Any movie.

He drew a blank.

Then, the world stopped.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

* * *

The orbit of the Earth halted to a dead stop.

Time cracked into jagged shards and froze mid fall. Colors became muted, and everything ever so slightly smeared, becoming out of focus and grainy.

Tony blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. And, for once in his life, he had absolutely no idea of what to say.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut then sprang them open. This was…unbelievable. This was like a movie, and in another first, Tony really didn't want to think about movies at that moment. He peered around, hoping for some sort of shred of reality to anchor himself to, and realized that he was staring at their table. At himself and Tim.

Tony peered closer at himself (Damn, he was good-looking, but then wasn't the time. Even Tony knew that). He focused on his own face and violently drew backward. There was a look of frozen shock on his face, eyes staring at where his and Tim's hands were forcefully joined, lips ever so slightly parted in the beginning of what was either a protest or a scream. He couldn't tell. Tim looked wan and ill. He almost didn't look alive, shadows pooling in eye cavities and under cheekbones, like a skull.

He mouthed exclamations that made no sense anywhere outside of his head (Which was now a few feet away), and then realized he wasn't breathing. Panic, held at bay for too long by recently battered defenses, burst through, flooding his senses. It was clear breathing was no longer a necessity, but he could feel the panic, icy in his chest cavity where no heartbeat.

**I knew this wasn't a good idea, Tony**.

The words bypassed the usual, ho-hum vibrating the eardrum route, and instead were directly imprinted into his brain. He could taste the letters, like a combination of dried lilac petals and antiseptic, heavy on his tongue. Slapped away from his panic by the words, Tony turned slowly, deer in headlights look firmly fixed onto his face. A hand unconsciously rose and clamped firmly onto his chest.

**Don't worry, I'm shielding myself from your soul. It won't be like last time**.

A pause.

**I hope**.

The hand didn't move.

"McGee? T-Tim?" Tony said shakily, without need of breath. The skeleton slowly cocked its head to the side. Green glinted deep within the endless eye sockets at the name.

**No. Yes. Sort of**.

It paused.

**It's kind of complicated**.

Another long pause.

**How do I look**?

"How do you-you look like a damn skeleton! With the cloak and…and the scythe." The scythe shone in the nonexistent light, as if to acknowledge him finally taking notice of its presence. Tony glanced away from it. He wasn't fond of the impression that inanimate objects were laughing silently at him. (Oh, God, he'd really gone off the deep end.)

**Interesting**.

Tony gave him a bewildered look. There was a movement that was, apparently, supposed to be a shrug. It rippled unnaturally through the dark cloth of his cloak. For a moment, Tony swore he could see the barest shadow of wings, before they vanished.

**You see what you expect to see**.

Death then looked at the shadowy flowers. He hesitated, glanced at Tony and then back to the flowers. Death cracked his finger bones. The sound was of a million coffin tops snapping closed.

**Come**.

Tony felt a slight shift within his chest. Death raised one skeletal hand to Tony, and pushed, fleshless palm facing toward him. The shifting settled. The scythe moved so fast that Tony only caught a blur of light streaking toward the flowers. He felt his soul shrink back, like a small bird, within the cage of his ribs.

An identical image of the flowers separated from their real counterpart, ethereal, glowing a dull blue that made Tony's eyes water. A feeling of wrongness dripped into him at the sight, but he didn't look away. It approached Death's outstretched hand like a wild animal, hesitant, movement halting. The hand curled gently around the image as it settled onto its palm, and the glow was snuffed out. It was horrific and beautiful at the same time.

The skull slowly turned to face him. The pure agelessness of Death flapped above Tony's head and slowly settled, like a thick wool blanket, like layers of sky, upon him. Tony grunted and bent double under the sudden weight of time, though there was no pain. With a monumental amount of effort, he straightened the best he could and stared down Death.

**Do you see them, Tony?**

"See what?"

**The souls. The millions of souls, stars in the darkness. And I am the light switch**.

"I don't see them." Tony swallowed and, with the words, I've got a bad feeling about this, courtesy of Harrison Ford at his Han Solo best, echoing through his head, said, "Show me."

Death turned sharply to fully face him.

**Tony-**

"Who is the senior field agent here, McDeath?" Tony stood firmly, arms folded across his chest, not caring that he was wrinkling his suit. "Hurry it up, my DVD of Dirty Dancing is waiting eagerly for me at home." He cocked an eyebrow and gave Death a small smirk, his in-charge smirk. _Oh my God. I've just attempted to pull rank on Death_. The immortal's head tilted ever so slightly to the side, there was something so Probie McGee about the action that Tony's smile deepened into something more genuine, relief at something familiar soothing the off-kilter feeling.

Tony blinked and then shut his eyes hard as his they went involuntarily out of focus. He opened them and blinked hard. Tim and Death stood before him, the same, but different. It was like double vision, like being drunk but without the pleasant numbness of alcohol.

"**Okay**." They said. "**Tell me when you've had enough**."

Then, without further clarification, they reached out a single finger and pressed it to Tony's forehead. His eyes _opened_.

"Hell!"

It was like someone had turned on a floodlight in a den of moles. The picture was burned into his corneas. Souls shone blindingly from all over the restaurant, and Tony realized that even he was emitting a pure white light.

But it wasn't just that, he could feel them, feel the power as they undulated, feel them as they slowly whittled their time away. He could hear them too, like lilting music, without pattern, without beat. Anguish and contentedness danced with sadness and pain, while joy waltzed with exhaustion nearby. They reached out wispy tendrils to cling to him and he stumbled out of their grasp, overwhelmed.

His awareness expanded beyond the restaurant, slowly encompassing the country. Billions of souls pinged into existence, triggering the fall of grains of sand in the hourglass. A shrill, inhuman screaming wormed its way into his ears, streaming through the folds of his brain. He wondered who was screaming, maybe he was. Or maybe no one was at all.

Tony screwed his eyes tightly shut, tears beginning to involuntarily ink between the lids, but couldn't close off the clamor of souls, and the constant screech, spilling into his head at a worrying rate.

Then, there was Death, an anomaly, negative space, utter and complete silence that pressed into Tony's ears, past the eardrums, into the crevices of his brain. Inked into his mouth and eyes, suffocating, slowly creeping through veins to curl around the still heart.

It was too much.

Tony trembled, on the verge of complete collapse. We're talking mushroom cloud bad. Flames. Shock wave. The whole shebang. He dropped to his knees, unable to hold himself up. A pain that he had never felt before was building in the formerly painless existence, swelling inside him, sloshing against the walls. The sudden change was agonizing. He could see himself fading, the light he emitted dimming in a truly alarming way.

He made a strangled noise that caught and tangled haphazardly in his throat, shredding as it was pushed through clenched teeth. It sounded very much like, "Arrghredamfushitstoptim!" Tears dribbled down translucent cheeks.

Then, the overwhelming sensations began to drain away, like a spigot had been pressed into his cranium and the flood let loose. The slight pressure on his forehead was drawn away, and Tony sat upon his legs and just shook for a moment, eyes glassy, in, what he faintly hoped was, quiet dignity. Death drew back his hand.

**I'm so sorry**.

The hand glided forward again, this time joined by its twin. They both smoothly began to draw intricate, impossible patterns just above Tony's head. Relief weaved its way into his system. Cracks that he had never been aware of sealed themselves back together, scars faded, darkness became light.

"What are you doing?" He asked hoarsely.

**Repairing your soul. I…I didn't realize it was this damaged**.

Tony could taste the sharp, salty guilt of these last words, and pressed his lips tightly together.

**No…don't think that**.

Came a strained statement. Tony carefully avoided Death's gaze.

**It doesn't mean that you're a bad person, Tony. It just means you've experienced more…damaging events than most people have**.

A pause.

**And I didn't help that**.

The flow of relief tapered off. The skull looked at him, the spark of green deep in the night of its eye sockets glowing brighter than ever, flickering wildly.

**…You're a very good person, Tony. One of the…um, the best I've ever met**.

The sheepishness of the words tasted like popcorn, Tony decided fuzzily, an infusion of butter, a tinge of salt, perhaps a hint of sugar? Honesty. Unwavering belief, and regret. Sadness.

"Is…that what you feel all the time?" Tony questioned finally, the slight slur of his words phasing out by the end of the query. He made a half-hearted gesture with a hand. "All those souls…?"

**Yes**.

"Even when you're…McGee?"  
**  
****Always. I'd be worried if I couldn't**.

There was a sharp, serious smile in the words that jabbed forward. Like gritted teeth, tears glittering like fallen stars in eyes, a shining blade rushing forth. Like a stiletto between ribs, with a hushed apology curling in the ear as the back arched forward. There was a very long pause. Then, just as another question was plucked from the raw film strips that were Tony's mind, two words were stamped into his consciousness.

**Brace yourself**.

"What-"

Both bone and flesh pressed to his forehead.

A switch flicked.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

* * *

A switch flicked.

Tony gasped, ripping his hand away from Tim's and cradling it to his chest.

"McGeewhatthefuckinghellwasth at?!" He panted out, starting a rough check-up of all vital organs. Tim pressed his lips tightly together, eyes far too weary for the age he looked.

Tony caught sight of the flowers on the table. They had drooped sadly, stems yellowed, delicate leaves shriveled and tiny. Velvety petals littered the table around the glass. A pang of sadness violently combined with a thrill of fear. A hand drifted into his vision and gently touched a stray petal, which blackened for a brief second at the place of contact, though didn't spread beyond that. Tony watched, heartbeat finally adopting a more normal pace.

"It was too soon. It had a few more hours at least." Tim noted quietly, and withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry, Tony."

"I asked you to show me all that, McGee. Don't be stupid."

"But I never should have actually done it. The eyes of the living were never meant to see that, to see what I see, and I knew that it could be cataclysmic! But I was frustrated, and…and I was afraid, and I was so damn tired." Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them, wide, until one could see the entirety of green orbs, pupils inhumanly miniscule; they contained a sort of hungry emptiness, void of any emotion, any reaction, snatching eagerly at anything that drifted close by, sucking it into their, deserted, unfillable depths. Tony immediately leaned away from Tim, blinking to clear the sudden vertigo, shoulders tensing and folding inward like the furling of wings.

Tim shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. His whole body seemed to sag.

"Sorry. Sorry."

"McGoo," Tony began. "I hate to be that guy, but, you're the damn angel of Death. Are you supposed to have…feelings?" His face twisted into the very uncomfortable expression of one who has just stepped into a retired minefield, where they aren't entirely sure they got all the bombs. Talking about feelings never was his area. It was so far out of his area that one would need a large amount of unmarked bills and a very shady man with a covered truck to get there.

Tim gave him a very lost look. "Michael was right." He said in a detached voice. "I've gone native."

He squinted at Tim. "Is that…a good thing?"

"Not for me."

"…Okay." Tony picked up his discarded fork and began to twirl it expertly between his fingers. "Let's pretend I know absolutely nothing about what's going on," Oh, wait. We don't have to pretend. "Use small words with me, McGee."

"I always do."

Tony attempted to give him a disgruntled look, but it missed the mark and belly flopped into relieved at some show of life from the McGee he knew and, secretly, and in a very manly way, mind you, loved. Tim gave him a flowerpot smile.

"I'm Death, Tony"

"I'm caught up that far, McObvious."

"I'm Death," Tim repeated pointedly ignoring Tony's remark. "I am The End." One could clearly hear the capitalized T and E. "I'm the Reaperman, and when the universe eventually dies, I will be there to reap it. I'm beyond Lucifer, beyond all the angels, all the demons, beyond even God, and when it ends, when Heaven and Hell collapse, I will reap them all."

"You're going to kill, God."

"I don't kill-" Tim started, indignation rolling off him in waves.

"Yeah, yeah, you take souls on a romantic dinner date, or whatever you call it." Tony interrupted and waved away Tim's irritation. "You're going to-" He flapped his hand. "-to_ God_?"

The anger washed off Tim's face. "Yes."

After a minute or two of complete lack of any more explanation, Tony carefully tucked away his skeptical expression, he had a feeling that he'd be using a lot more tonight anyway, and leaned against the table. "Okay, fine. You're going to watch us all take a dirt nap. Great. Continue."

Tim pressed his lips tightly together in a hard line at the toneless quality of Tony's voice but didn't comment on it. "That's what I'm supposed to do. What I know I'm going to do. It's the purpose I now exist to fulfill. But I'm…Tony, I…" A contorted expression tore its way onto Tim's face, anxiety and indecision and anguish roiling horribly at the surface. "I'm having doubts!" He spit out, hands roughly balling the table cloth, eyes wide and pleading. The few patrons still eating at the restaurant so late looked up, startled. Tony glared at them until they turned away.

Tim didn't notice and shakily ran a hand through his hair. "Never, since the first day of this entire universe, have I ever had…doubts about what I'm doing, and then nine years living among humans, and everything goes belly up. Nine years. You know what that's like for me? It's barely a second, barely a fraction of the total amount of time I've existed!" Tim sounded frantic, almost in tears of frustration and desperation. It was as close to a loss of complete control that Tony had ever seen from him. "I'm the end. Without me, there can't be a beginning! If I can't do my job…then we're all lost."

"And that means…?"

"Without Death, there can't be life."

"…So, you're not sure what'll happen?"

Tim stared at Tony for a second before saying, rather helplessly, "It'll be bad. Worse than bad." He paused before adding, "Think, end of everything. Time and reality torn apart-"

"Human sacrifice? Dogs and cats living together? Mass hysteria?"

Tim gave Tony a look so sharp that if it were any sharper, Tony was sure he'd be in nice, evenly sized ribbons. "I'm not kidding, Tony. I wish I was." He said in an even voice.

"Okay," Tony said, relatively calmly. "We just need to get you your mojo back."

Tim shut his eyes. "…I don't think I can."

"You don't think you can." Tony repeated. "C'mon, I'm sure it's just like riding a bike." He paused. "Though if you don't know how to ride a bike, we may have a problem."

"You humans," Tim smiled, soft, fond, alien. He turned his head, and shadows raced across the crevices of his face. The smile turned into a grimace of pain. "Clever and cruel, violent and passionate, inventive and destructive. And I've…fallen for you."

"You've what?!"

"I've fallen for the human race."

Tony blinked. "McGee," He raised a hand that shook slightly and gestured the waitress over for the bill on their untouched food. "I hate to say it, but I'm way out of my league with this one." He glanced at the bill, gave it another longer, more horrified look, and decided that they'd split it. Tony set down the bill. "Okay, so your job is to kill people," He said slowly, tremendous weight in every word. "But now you can't because you've…fallen in love with the people you're supposed to kill." Tim didn't even bother to correct him on the killing thing, just allowed his face to lower into his cupped hands.

"Pretty much." Came the muffled reply. "Close enough, anyway. God, what am I going to do?"

"Are you asking me, or the Big Man?"

"Both." Tim roughly rubbed his face and inadvertently looked skyward. "But I'm not sure I'd like his opinion. No one likes to go to their parent and admit they were wrong. That they did something so stupid."

"Yeah, I've been there." Tony said, tight posture relaxing as they strode into a more familiar area. "So, God's your old man?"

Tim grimaced. "Yes. Sort of."

"Choosing a Father's Day gift must be hell." Tony commented lightly. A smile bloomed slowly across Tim's face. "What do you get for the man who created everything? A tie's probably out of the question." Tim laughed, it was a sad, stunted thing, but it was carefree and genuine. "Does God even wear ties? I mean, if I was…God, it'd be casual Friday 24/7." He paused and continued, quite seriously. "You know what, I'd go commando. It's not like anyone's going to tell you to go put something on." Tony joined in laughing with Tim, the last words breaking up under the onslaught.

The realization that they couldn't stop, dawned on both men at exactly the same time and they laughed even harder, levees broken. It was the kind of laughter that perched on the fence between actual amusement and hysteria, wobbling and swaying childishly to either side but not committing to either. Tony pounded the table weakly with a fist, and Tim bent double over, gasping for breath.

"Stop, stop, Tony…you're killing me!" Tim wheezed, a few errant chuckles escaping.

"Hypocrite!" Tony said thinly, and laughed again. Tim dissolved into soft giggles, head cradled in a hand, the other anchored to the table in a fruitless attempt to keep himself upright. "Do your own damn job, McGee." The moment the words left his mouth, Tony knew he had inadvertently touched a nerve.

The air seemed to solidify around them for a moment, leaving Tony's lungs burning, and Tim stiffened for a moment. Then his shoulders shook silently. Tony vaguely wondered if it was from laughter, sobs, or both. His own mirth quickly petered off.

There was a pause that contained an entire novel of information, and then, "I'm trying." The statement was soberingly emphatic. Tim didn't look up as he said it. His shaking shoulders stilled, and he finally raised his head, eyes very sad, but also vacant of anything relating to tears.

"McGee, I didn't-"

"I know. It's fine, Tony. Forget it."

Tony watched Tim seriously. "So that's it." Tim didn't meet his eyes. "The world's going to end. Just like that. And there's nothing we can do."

"No." The unspoken apology lay flush between them, and then dissolved.

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know. Very, very soon. Maybe even tonight." An examining pause. "Tonight. I can feel it." He raised his head. It was like the moon rising over the horizon, shining, pale and sad in the darkness.

"Fuck, Tim." Tony couldn't help the hopelessness that permeated his entire body, drowning his words in numbing pain, astoundingly resistant to formerly reliable methods of blocking. Of shoving it down, burying it, letting it decay. No, it sat heavy upon his tongue, in his lungs, swaying along to the beating of his heart. "Will we see it coming? Like…2012 kind of thing?"

"I don't think so. Everything will just…become undone. Like pulling a loose thread." Tim added, dream-like.

"Damn. It's pretty cliché, but I have to say it…I had so much I wanted to do." Tony gave an empty smile.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

Tim then silently retrieved his wallet to pay for the entire bill, expression utterly hopeless. Tony watched without a word. And really, what was there to say?

The waitress must have noticed their roller coaster of reactions throughout their oddly long meal, and watched them with an uncertain grin as they quietly paid her. The younger man gave her a smile messily strung together with dead dreams, and draped with rotting expectations. He then politely wished her a good night.

She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave, and watched as they departed together into the night, watched until it swallowed them whole, then watched a little while after. She wasn't sure why. There had been something about the younger man's eyes. They were green, a pretty shade really, intelligent and analytical, but odd, like…a fire. Like the act of burning a house down, the harsh scent of gasoline searing the nostrils, seeing the flames eagerly strip away everything, leaving only a skeleton behind, charred and fragile and…dead. That was it. There was no life, no spark of liveliness within their confines, they were just dead. Barren.

She tried to forget them. They didn't matter, just another nice couple. They were a bit…eccentric, but who wasn't? But the things they were talking about…she only caught a few words, but…

She paused at their table, and stared at the dead flowers draped sadly over the edge of their tiny vase.

They were fine a half hour ago.

She touched a soft, fading petal.

And tried to forget.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

"You heard about what Michael almost did?"

"I have been informed by Jeremiah."

"And?"

"And I've heard Beelzebub had a part to play as well."

"But he's mine. Michael's under your holier than thou thumb. So…?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to do anything about him?"

"I have no need to."

"…You blew Sodom and Gomorrah off the face of the puny planet for being a tiny bit promiscuous, and yet your head archangel disobeys direct orders and gets nada?"

"I do not treat my angels like you treat your demons. How is Beelzebub?"

"Still being drained from my carpet. It's Persian too. Pity. At least he learned. He'll think twice about…about…actually, I didn't give him any clear orders. I may have to apologize the next time I see him."

"Will you, now?"

"No, but it's the thought that counts. At least Beelzebub learned something. Sort of."

"Michael has already learned his lesson."

"How? By you patting him on the back and giving him a lollipop?"

"Azrael was highly angered by Michael's intrusion."

"…I assumed, but what-" There was sudden realization, followed by glee. "Michael's been wing clamped, hasn't he? Ooh, that's a blow to the ego! Michael the high and mighty Archangel, Heaven's fiercest warrior, unable to leave Nirvana! I'd sell my soul," The voice cackled at its own joke. "To be able to see my Brother grounded right now. He must be furious!"

"He acknowledges that he disobeyed orders, so he knows not to come to me to request that I break Azrael's lock. He's busy sulking in his favorite heaven."

"That's beautiful. I'm glad I got a good laugh before it all ends." A pause. "There's no stopping it." Not a question. A statement. Definite. The end.

Silence.

"Well, you're chatty today."

Silence.

"It's too bad that Michael and I never got to have at it one last time." A long pause. "We are still brothers."

A sigh.

Waiting silence.

"I'm…kind of sad to see all this go."

Answering silence. Two immortal beings watched galaxies spin, stars wink and tick across space, embroidered upon the endless black velvet. The Earth spun centrally in their vision, a shining, twisting, changing orb, billions of lives beginning and ending, barely blips on their radar.

"As am I."

o-o

The click of a cell phone shutting.

Tony paces

Opening again.

Shutting.

An angry huff of breath. Opening. A number dialed.

"Hey, Dad."

Hesitant, attempting to be carefree. Fake. Sad.

"Yeah, I know it's late. No, that's great. No, Dad, leave that waitress alone. Yeah, I'm sure. Your wiles dried up a long time ago."

A hand grips a chair back.

"Everything's fine, I'm fine. Why would you think something's wrong?"

Fingernails imprint half-moon shapes on the polished wood.

"Can't a son call his father on normal…father/son things? No, you're not the suspect in a murder again."

Teeth grit.

"Dad, listen, please. I don't think I can say this again. You've done some shitty stuff over the years, but so have I. So have a lot of good people, 'cause that's what people do."

Words spill out in a fearful pace, before courage is lost.

"But even after everything we've done, we're family. That still matters, I think, even after…mom. And Dad, I, uh…I-I love you."

Quick breaths. Then, a laugh. Broken and gently relieved.

"No, I'm not dying. No, no one's dying! Christ, does someone have to be dying for me to tell you things?"

We're all going to die. Tonight. I wish I could tell you. But I can't tell anyone.

"I'll…I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I want to get together next time you're in town."

The words, 'Next time' shake even with the added supports. Even with the extra care, the reinforced walls, the spackle and fresh coat of paint. Next time. He wished this wasn't a lie.

"Bye, Dad. Yeah…I love you too. Listen, we're not turning that into a thing now, okay? Too chick-flick, Sleepless in Seattle, for me. Sure. Bye."

A sigh. Scratch of chair legs on floor and the creak as weight slumps onto the framework.

He sits, heart heavy, and he waits for the cancellation notice to come.

Soon.

o-o

Gibbs looks out the small window in his basement at the choking darkness, and knows something is wrong.

This darkness is anthropomorphic. It claws itself by weary fingers through the cracks in the windows, the sliver under his door, and writhes helplessly at his feet. One could almost hear the groans as it presses against the glass, the anguish on a normally unreadable face. The diamond stars drown in its embrace, and the moon fights endlessly to break free.

Something is very wrong.

Gibbs sips his alcohol, and stares it down. Unlike anything else, the darkness refuses to cower. It continues oozing painfully against the window, black hands pushing pleadingly on the glass.

Gibbs has lived through more than most, (More than a lot who are older than him too) but this…this is beyond everything he's ever experienced.

This…fear in the air. The feeling of imminent destruction sprayed like blood across a wall. The inevitable. Duct tape right across the eyes, stuck so tight he doesn't know left from right, right from wrong, and one answer from the next. But what is the answer?

What the hell is this?

The darkness clings desperately to shoelaces, pant legs, but he brushes it aside. He begins working on his boat again.

Something is very wrong, Gibbs has weathered a hundred storms before this, but he isn't entirely sure he'll make it through this one.

And he waits for some kind of finality, under naked light bulbs that shiver in the storm.

o-o

Ziva is glad her apartment building is being fumigated. She grips the black sheets with the intricate lace edging tighter, and shifts on the couch for the umpteenth time that evening. She sits upright, stiffly, on guard against…something. There has to be something. She listens and there's a distinct lack of natural sound from the inside of the apartment. Abby must be as awake as she is.

There is a sense of wrongness that has infused into her bones, and a sort of hush outside. She can hear the building creaking from the wind, it must be pretty strong going off this, but there's only a faint moan from outside the glazed glass. It's an indrawn breath. It's an expectation that will soon be met.

She recognizes this hush. It's the kind of quiet she's heard before bombings, the waiting, like every single set of eyes has turned skyward, every chest stilled, every heart beat muffled. Waiting. But it feels worse now. So much worse.

Ziva fingers the knife sitting snug in the palm of her hand. She isn't surprised as she feels the cushions next to her compress slightly and the sheets rise and then gently fall.

"Something doesn't feel right." Abby's voice emerges from the darkness. Her voice is stilted, stiff and uncertain. Large eyes reflect lost rays of light.

"No, it does not."

A pause. "Do you mind if I stay here, Ziva?"

"I must warn you, I doubt I will be sleeping much tonight."

A tinkling laugh, like breaking glass. "Ditto. Slumber party then?"

"Tony would be thrilled."

A very long pause. Words have lost all meaning. The shiver of shifting sheets. The muted cry of dead men in the wind.

Ziva feels a hand slip into her unoccupied hand, and she takes it immediately.

She never truly has been into holding hands. She's made exceptions for a select few, but overall, it isn't something that she does. But sometimes, she needs it. Needs it like she needs oxegen. Like she needs NCIS. Like she needs her team. She grips Abby's hand tightly.

Right now? She needs it.

There's an answering squeeze. She's not the only one that needs it apparently.

They wait for an answer in the darkness.

o-o

Ducky sits with a book and a glass of wine.

All three gather dust as they wait for the end together. Ducky knows.

"Oh, Timothy."

The words curl translucently in the air like smoke from a pipe.

"I'm so sorry."

Eyes that are almost too wise, too old, too sad, stare through the darkness. Almost.

They wait for the end in silence.

o-o

He lifts the scythe, but cannot swing down. Can't reap what he must. Can't fulfill what he has always done, and should always do.

The scales have tipped.

And balance has been lost.

Hands that shift from flesh to bone, never either one or the other, begin to shake. The scythe bends, writhes, and then falls apart with a sigh.

"**Forgive me, Father**."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

Death watches through ancient eyes as everything begins to unravel.  
**  
****I'm so sorry. I didn't realize-**

The words are useless, there's no one there to hear. There never would be. He'd be the very last thing there, before he too would vanish with a gentle pop, like existence blowing one final raspberry at his failings. The last of the last. He reaches out tendrils of consciousness heavenward, like he hasn't done for so long, and can feel nothing. His Father has deserted him. He doesn't blame him for doing so. With a leaden feeling of despair leeching through him, he reaches blindly out.

He can feel the acceptance of Tony, the fear of Abby, the defiance of Ziva, the sad resignation of Gibbs, the knowing of Ducky. Feel their souls dim, flicker.

He buckles. He can feel it all. Stars shake wildly, and atoms begin to still. Time is condensing. Souls pour in together, past, present, future, sloshing around helplessly, ignorant. Seven billion lives. Eight. Nine. Twenty. Thirty. Innumerable amounts.

The thin membrane between worlds begins to snap and tear. Heaven and Hell stretch spaghetti thin, straining toward the slowly shrinking reality, like a black hole.

He can't breathe. Did he ever? He can't remember.

He subconsciously follows threads with careful fingers (No, he doesn't have fingers anymore. He is everything. Everything is him) back to familiar feelings. They reach blindly out to him, imparting fading emotions. Friendship. Family. Love. Alarm. Fear. So alien and so familiar.

Voices in the depths.

_Help. Help us. Helphelphelp._

Threads begin to unravel. He holds on tighter to them. They slide in his grasp. Eyes bug without vision.

No. No.

His fear, righteous anger and shame magnify in ways they've never been before, and he shudders, his form rippling. The emotions crackle and fizz within him.

Something's building within his chest cavity, a hurricane, a storm so large that it threatens to overwhelm him. To drown him. Drown them all. He yearns to let the flood spill forth in a scream that would rend the collapsing worlds in two. To let it all end.

He's been holding it all together for so long. Too long.  
_  
__Help us_. The blips of feelings weaken. The threads unravel…and begin to become shades. _Shadows. Help us. McGee. Tim._

Please.

No. No, no, no. Not after everything. Unbearable pain builds with the storm and there's a fire in his chest, filling his lungs with heat and clawing agony.

"Timothy, Azrael, you know what to do."

The voice rides serenely to him on a smile. Tired and familiar in more ways than one. He clings desperately to it.

"You always have."

Timothy McGee. Azrael.

The elevator dings. (Both hear it)

"You know."

And he does. He does know what to do. He smiles, soft, sad, stringy and sallow. Bleached bones crack deeply and fuse back together. The storm inside his chest rises, howls, spilling between his ribs and sloshing against nonexistent skin.

And with the same smile, he lets it, stemming it, redirecting it, letting it flow through veins and arteries. Through bones, and marrow. Through ends and beginnings. Through him, until he thrums with the power, glowing at the epicenter of the writhing reality.

Timothy McGee.

Death.

Two sides of the same coin. The same, but not the same. Like a tree branch, splitting down the middle. The branch began whole, but few things end the same as they began.

Fingers tap a keyboard, and curl around a scythe.

The elevator dings. (Of course)

Same. Separate.

A smile. Two smiles.

Eyes open, light spilling forth, but the storm rages, contained in the supernova at the center of the collapse. With raw power, a voice pierces the wreckage.

**Stop**.

A pause, and then…Existence obeys.

The dying universes slow and then freeze in their undoing. Then, destruction becomes construction. Flesh and reality slowly knit together, and time begins snapping back into place.

Timothy McGee and Death stand together. Apart.

The elevator dings. (But who's on it?)

They face each other, and wonder. The supernova between the two pulses erratically and lightning claws its way across the sphere.

**We never did know our own power**. Death says evenly, watching the ticking bomb with interest.

"No, you didn't. And it's not 'we' anymore." Tim smiles softly.

**Yes, you're correct. And you're incorrect. But mostly correct. Sort of**.

Tim gives a look of weak exasperation. "That's not very helpful."

**I don't have any definite answers. Not really. This has never happened before.****  
**  
"Are…are you going to take care of that?" Tim nods uncertainty toward the sphere of energy, which was being swiftly infected by rather nasty-looking red veins. Death's cloak and his clothing flap viciously in the hurricane-like wind, rising and being sucked toward the sphere. "Don't want reality exploding again."

Death grins, eye sockets widening in long awaited relief, and stretches out skeletal fingers over the ball. Tim, without knowing exactly why, does the same, settling his hand beside Death's.

The two beings seem to breathe in, but it's more like a typhoon. The energy is ripped apart, and twirls, shining, twisting, around their hands in a sort of beautiful bind, shimmering, incandescent chains, before fading away.

And they stare at each other as existence delicately sews itself back together around them.

**Timothy McGee**.

"Azrael. Will I remember?"

**Yes**.

"Will Tony?"

**It's better if he remains ignorant**.

Tim smiles. It cracks his face in two, unforced humor oozing forth. "He'd argue with you there, Angel of Death or not. Tony's not one to be left out."

**No. I suppose not**. Tim can almost see a familiar smile on Death's shadowy features. It's like glimpsing himself in the reflection of the dark bathroom mirror, in the young hours of the day**. But he's not designed to handle this sort of information**.

Tim's brow gains valleys. "What do you mean?"

**Humans have never been designed to learn the knowledge we hold. Few have had this information before, and they've stumbled only upon a fraction of it. Anthony Dinozzo will crumble under the amount we've told him. His mind will bend under the weight, and eventually, shatter. Then, he will either become clinically insane, or slip into a bottomless depression and eventually commit suicide. And I will reap him sooner than I had expected**.

A pause. The elevator dings in a way that's almost impatient. Both ignore it.

"Oh God." The uttered words are a susurrus in the silence, horror and guilt dripping from each syllable. "Can you-"

**I will clear away that knowledge. He will never know what you have told him**.

"Thank you." A weak smile. "What about me? I'm human. I think."

**You are something different**.

"…Okay."

**You…you are not fully human, not in the strictest sense, nor are you a divine being**.

The bones of Death's hands click loudly together as they contract and then open, as if to pluck the words from space.  
**  
****You are a mortal, begat from Death**.

"What does that mean for me?"

**I don't know. You are a different breed, I suppose. They are made from light, while you separated from darkness. It's fascinating. Though, I believe, essentially, you are similar enough to them**.

Death then cranes back his neck, bones cracking wildly, and smiles, shadowy cloak curling like fog around him.

**Look, Timothy McGee. Look.****  
**  
Tim casts his gaze around them, and draws in a quick breath. "Oh…wow."

The brand new universe is twirling serenely around them, the milky way twisting at their feet like a shining, round carpet. The impenetrable blackness of space embracing their bodies and stretching off into infinity.  
**  
****Come, Timothy McGee.**

Tim rips his eyes away from the Eagle Nebula, which was slowly migrating back to its usual spot, and looks to Death.

**It is time to return you**.

"Goodbye, Azrael."

**Goodbye, Timothy McGee. I will see you again. At the end**.

Deep within the caverns of Death's eye sockets, there was a green twinkle, ominous, kind, and so very familiar.

"I look forward to that, Azrael." Tim stuck out a hand with the manners his mother had instilled in him, and a small smile crept undetected across his lips. Death slowly declined his head to look at the extended hand, and then suddenly his hand was gripping Tim's; they fit together perfectly. Death grinned cobwebs and the smell of ozone, of creation and destruction.

**As do** **I**.

The elevator dings and opens: one departs, one stays on, as it always has been.

The elevator door slides shut, and Timothy McGee drinks in the orange walls and scent of coffee.

"You are late, McGee. Is something wrong?"

"Not at all, Ziva."

She tilts her head fractionally to the side at his jovial tone, but doesn't comment. She hefts her bag higher on her shoulder and smiles at him. "We have a body. Come, McGee." She moves to stand next to him and there's a click as she presses the elevator button.

"McGoo! Thought you weren't going to make it and we'd have to go fetch you." Tony grins widely at the presumed thought of barging into Tim's apartment and dragging him blearily from bed. He tosses Tim's bag at him, which is caught clumsily. He sees Tim's look and his brow furrows. "What?" He glances at his suit. "Do I have something on me? In my teeth?" He bares his teeth and gives Ziva a distinctly constipated look. She chuckles. Tony grins, and then looks back to Tim. Concern touches his features but is sleekly glossed over. "Something wrong, McGee?"

Tim smiles, almost sadly. "Nothing's wrong, Tony. Everything's okay." Contentedness joins the sadness, transmuting it into something more akin to wisdom. "I promise.

"Oookay." Tony shrugged and clapped Tim enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Anyway, you're late, McTardy. There's a reason for that. Please tell me it involves a chick. It does, doesn't it?"

Footsteps, militarily precise, a touch harder than necessary, tap toward them. Tim smiles. Gibbs fresh from…MTAC, it sounds like. "Another time, Dinozzo."

"Yes, Boss. I'm just proud of our little Timmy McGee. Getting conquests all by himself…"

The elevator dings and the elevator arrives. The doors open. Four board. The door shuts.

And all is well.


	15. An End

An End

* * *

"You…you knew."

"Did I?"

"You knew. You knew all along, you clever bastard, you puppet master."

"Be calm, Lucifer."

"You took a human vessel, positioned yourself close to him, and watched him destroy himself."

"Repair himself." Came the calm correction.

"R-repair? He's the angel of death, not a fucking Mini Cooper. He doesn't need periodic maintenance." A pause. Slight uncertainty. "Doesn't he?"

"All souls need a new perspective once and a while. Even the Reaper of them all. All souls require a little tarnish rubbed from them to bring back the light sometimes."

Acknowledging silence. But no answer. A sigh.

"What about this…thing that was created? This…I don't even know what the hell to call it. Abomination?"

"How about his name? He does have one."

"Just-what the hell is he?"

"I don't know. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Oh, go to Heaven."

A smile. "We will watch him for now. I'm not entirely sure what he is, I'm not even certain he knows what he is. He is under Azrael's protection, this Timothy McGee."

"It should be blasted off the skin of the puny planet."

"Are you willing to cross Azrael to do so?"

An angry, slightly humiliated breath is huffed out and swallowed by the vacuum.

"We can only watch now."

"Not much we can do besides that."

"No. Only time will tell about Timothy McGee. What side of the line he stands on, what he can do. Only time will tell."

A long pause.

"I hate waiting."

"You always did, but isn't that the best part?"

"Hell no."

A laugh, deep and rumbling, an echo of creation. Answering sulking.

The sound of grains of sand tumbling.

The elevator dings.


End file.
